


Ron Weasley and the Clothes of Doom

by ConsentFest, Liesha130



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asking Consent, Blow Jobs, Feelings of Low Self-Esteem, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Love Confessions, Low Self-Worth, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-War, Repeat Seventh Year (because I don't like to call it Eighth Year) (in flashback), building confidence, non-linear timeline, pub nights, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-06 03:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsentFest/pseuds/ConsentFest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liesha130/pseuds/Liesha130
Summary: Do the clothes make the man?Ron Weasley thinks he has no chance, until one night when he dresses up and Blaise Zabini can’t take his eyes off him. The solution is easy, then, right? Ron just has to keep dressing up, and Blaise will keep wanting him. But every time Ron puts the new clothes on, he’s sent spiraling off into a past filled with insecurity. Will he really be able to keep this up without going completely bonkers? And what does Blaise actually want from him, anyway?





	Ron Weasley and the Clothes of Doom

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling, also known as God. (Just kidding, God! Don't smite me!) I own nothing. I am making no money. No bottles of butterbeer or red-headed wizards were harmed during the production of this story.
> 
> I would like to thank the baby that I take care of for obligingly sleeping in her stroller while I talked at her about this story as I was developing it, and while frantically typing scenes up against the deadline. Don't worry, no babies' sensibilities were harmed during the production of this story either.
> 
> I would like to thank the moderators for being so patient and forbearing with me as I asked for one extension after another, and finally got this story in about two seconds before I couldn't anymore.
> 
> I cannot thank my wonderful beta enough for offering her services to me when I had a very short amount of time left for her to get through this monster fic. Her advice, suggestions, and encouragement were invaluable.
> 
> I must mention my very dear friend who sent me the information about Consent Fest to begin with, and then listened to me talk over and over my ideas, helping me to put them in order.
> 
> Finally, to my family, who put up with my constant talking about this story, gave me time and space to complete it, and allowed me to take over the living room for work. More especially to my incredible sister, who sat with me and went over more than 30,000 words of text in three days, helping me to rephrase and reformulate, and catching every little mistake that I had missed. She is truly amazing.

_Ron Weasley and the Clothes of Doom_

 

      Ron sat in a corner of the booth, drowning his sorrows in butterbeer. Yes, that’s right, butterbeer. Unfortunately, he was on duty at the shop in the morning, so he couldn’t afford to drink anything stronger, low alcohol tolerance as he had turned out to have. While _Hermione_ , who’d always been such an advocate for proper behaviour, could drink all the rest of them under the table. Sometimes Fate really was a bitch. Witness Ron’s situation at this very moment: He was sitting in a bar with five happy couples while depressingly single himself, and the only other single person there was getting ready to leave with tonight’s conquest, and was, inconveniently, also the object of Ron’s unrequited crush. At least he tried every so often to convince himself it was only a crush. Unsuccessfully, of course.  
      “See you all next time,” Blaise Zabini said, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair and smiling at Jessica or Jennifer or whatever her name was this time. She was tall and gangly, with long, cherry red hair. _My hair’s brighter,_ Ron thought childishly, glaring at her from behind his tankard. _And it’s natural._ “Goodbye, Draco, Pansy, Theo, Scamander, Abbott, Lovegood, Longbottom, Potter, Granger, Weasley, other Weasley,” he nodded to each as he said their name, reaching Ron last. Everyone else had gone home by now, George tottering off with Angelina about an hour earlier, and Dean taking Seamus home when he’d started professing undying love to the musicians. Each of them nodded goodbye in return, Ron rolling his eyes as he did so.  
      “I have a name, you know,” he muttered into his butterbeer. He doubted Blaise heard him. He was too busy wrapping his arm around Jessica-or-Jennifer’s shoulders and leading her out of the pub.  
      Ron sighed. He was pathetic. At least Jessica-or-Jennifer hadn’t noticed him glaring at her, unlike that bloke from last time, Robert or Rupert or whatever, with the freckled face and bright blue eyes. It had really been too dark in the pub to tell, but Ron had still spent the better part of five minutes glaring at the man, all the while thinking that those eyes had to be spell-enhanced to be that bright, and anyway, his own were a nicer shade. The bloke had been so uncomfortable about being glared at that he’d hurried Blaise out of the pub before he’d even had the chance to do his customary parting nods.  
      “Seriously, Weasley,” Pansy snapped, jerking Ron’s gaze away from Blaise’s retreating back. “You could actually say something to him instead of just glaring at everyone he leaves with.”  
      Oh, did Ron mention? The most pathetic part about all of this was that there was not one, _not one,_ of his friends who didn’t know about his feelings, _except the bloody object of them!_ How was this his life? Hadn’t he had enough of the whole unrequited, pining, jealous-of-everyone thing when he’d thought he was in love with Hermione? Did he really need to go through it all again? Apparently, that bitch Fate really had it out for him.  
      “What the hell do you think I can say to him, Parkinson?” Ron grumbled. “He can, quite obviously, get anyone he bloody wants. What would he want me for?”  
      “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Pansy huffed, exasperated. She turned to Ron’s sister. “Ginny, love, I hope it won’t be awkward for you if I extol the virtues of your brother for a minute, _few_ as they may be.”  
      “Be my guest,” Ginny replied airily. “You won’t hear me singing his praises, and someone needs to say it.”  
      “Thanks, love.” Pansy turned back to Ron. “Let’s see,” she said exaggeratedly, tapping her finger against her cheek in mock thought. “You are, for a bloke, fairly good-looking. From what Granger has said, you’re excellent in the sack.” Hermione had the decency to blush and look guiltily first at Theo, then at Ron. “You are co-owner of one of the most successful businesses in Wizarding Britain with connections all over the world. You are loyal to a fault, it makes me want to _gag_ at all the Hufflepuffishness of it.” This earned her a glare from Hannah Abbott and an indulgent smile from Rolf Scamander. “You’re rather unexpectedly smart in some ways, if the way you play chess and the products you come up with for your shop are any indication. And to top it all off, you’re googly-eyed in love with him. What _wouldn’t_ he want you for?” Pansy scowled. “Merlin, I still can’t believe I have good things to say about Weasleys.” At this, Ginny reached across the table and smacked her on the arm. She grinned back at Ginny and said, “You know I love you all,” before turning back toward Ron. “Oh, and just so you know, not a single one of the things I just said was my own original thought. I just repeated things _someone_ has said about you. So it’s definitely not just me who thinks so.”  
      Ron, whose face was by this time as red as his hair, mumbled, “Most people don’t see me that way. I think Jared’s exact words when we broke up were, ‘Oblivious, inattentive, too absorbed in work, more attached to your friends than to me, and with insecurity issues way too huge to deal with. Oh, and you dress like a slob. Like you’re not even trying to attract me.’” Pansy’s eyes gleamed. She walked over to Ginny and started whispering before she’d even sat down. Within seconds, Ginny beckoned to Hermione, and Pansy to Draco. The four of them began whispering fiercely, clearly plotting something. Theo shot Ron a commiserating look, and Harry whispered, “Sorry, mate.” Whether he was sorry for Jared’s parting words as remembered by Ron, or for whatever it was the girls and Draco were clearly plotting, Ron didn’t know.  
      Ron sighed again. Jared had been right, he did dress like a slob. When he wasn’t out in front at the shop, he could afford to. After growing up wearing hand-me-downs that were usually too small, it was nice to be able to afford comfortable clothing with enough room to breathe. But it certainly didn't help him attract potential partners. Blaise seemed like the kind of person to whom presentation was important. Merlin knew he was always impeccably dressed and groomed himself. Ron wouldn’t expect Blaise to look more than once in the direction of someone who dressed the way he did if it hadn’t been for this weird group-friendship thing Harry had started. That’s what had led to this current group.

 

*          *          *

 

      “A party in the Slytherin common room? Are you serious, Harry?” Ron exclaimed, rather too loudly.  
      “Really, Ron, there’s no need to yell,” Hermione scolded.  
      “No need to yell? Are you mental, Hermione?” Ron turned incredulous eyes on his girlfriend. “Harry wants us to go to a party in the Slytherin common room.”  
      “Yes, I heard him, Ron,” Hermione answered, more than a touch of annoyance in her voice. “I just don’t see what you’re so surprised about. Harry’s been at this for a few months already.”  
      That was true, Ron thought. Ever since they’d come back for their repeat seventh year--actually, even before that; since Draco Malfoy’s trial, if he had to put a date on it--Harry had been talking about how he was tired of the House barriers and it was high time something was done about actual inter-House communication. So while Ron and Hermione had been spending time alone together, exploring their move from friends to a couple, Harry had been spending a lot of time trying to make friends with the Slytherins. Apparently he’d been successful too, because he had just invited Ron, Hermione, and the rest of their year and the year below them to an inter-House party in the Slytherin common room, held there as a gesture of goodwill from the Slytherins to the rest of the school. He’d even gotten McGonagall’s permission for it. On his own. Without Hermione’s help. Which had her beaming like a proud mother as Harry explained all about it, much to Ron’s amusement. Ron’s reaction wasn’t quite that positive. It wasn’t that Ron doubted Harry’s determination when he’d gotten a project going, but he was surprised that the Slytherins had actually been willing to go along with him. Hadn’t they hated Harry and the rest of them all this time?  
      “So you think this is a good idea?” Ron asked Hermione.  
      “I’ve been saying for ages that it would be better if we could all get along,” Hermione said. “It’s my mistake that I never tried to act on it. I really admire what Harry’s doing.”  
      “Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said.  
      “And I’m still surprised that you even managed to get McGonagall’s permission for it. I’m really impressed,” Hermione continued, with her ‘I’m so proud of you’ smile.  
      “Thanks, Hermione,” Harry repeated, rolling his eyes. He turned to Ron. “Look, Ron, we all came to Hogwarts with prejudices. Just give them a chance, okay? If I can make friends with Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, of all people, it won’t hurt you to spend a few hours in their company.”  
      Ron grimaced. “Fat lot you know,” he grumbled, but he agreed to go.

 

      When Ron, Harry, and Hermione walked into the Slytherin common room on Saturday night, Harry broke off from them almost immediately to join Malfoy. The two were soon deep in conversation, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings.  
      “Hmm,” Hermione said, looking at them.  
      “What?” Ron asked.  
      “You don’t see it?” Hermione asked. “They look so close. I’d never have thought it possible for them to even be civil to each other, but look at them. We’ve missed a lot with Harry in the past few months.”  
      “Yeah, we have,” Ron agreed sadly. He cast a sidelong glance at Hermione. He was sure that she’d felt it too, though they hadn’t talked about it, but it was strange for it to be just them. At first, Ron had figured that it was just new because they’d always been a trio, him and Harry and Hermione, and that after some time he and Hermione would get used to spending time together, just the two of them. But it had already been a few months, and it was still weird. Not that he didn’t enjoy the time he spent with Hermione. But it still seemed wrong for them to spend so much time together without their third part. Ron had an inkling, and he was sure that if he did, so did she, that this relationship wasn’t going to work out after all. It was odd, because he’d thought he was so in love with her, but something wasn’t right with them. And realising how much his spending time with just Hermione meant they’d been missing about Harry hit him hard.  
      “Well, I guess we should try to find some people to talk to,” Hermione said tentatively, as if unsure of his response. “We’re here for a purpose, after all.”  
      “You’re right,” Ron said, looking around the room, unsure how to start a conversation with a Slytherin. He caught sight of a boy sitting by a window with a book.  
      “Hey, isn’t that Theodore Nott?” he asked.  
      “Who?” Hermione asked, looking in the direction he indicated.  
      “Over there, with the book,” Ron said. He chuckled. “Seems like your kind of guy, Hermione. Who but you would come to a party with a book? Guess we’ve found out.”  
      Hermione looked over at the boy. “You know, I’m going to ignore the implied insult and just say thank you, Ron.”  
      “Huh?” Ron said, giving her a look. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. But we’re here to try to talk to Slytherins, right? So someone who brings a book to a party seems like a good place for you to start.”  
      Hermione blinked. “That was unusually insightful of you, Ron. That’s why I was saying thank you. Would you excuse me?”  
      “Yeah, sure,” Ron waved her on with a smile. “Go talk books. Have fun.”  
      “Thanks,” Hermione said, smiling. “Wish me luck.”  
      “Good luck.”  
      Ron watched Hermione approach Theodore Nott and speak to him, probably asking what he was reading. Hermione seemed to be unsure of herself, if Ron was any judge, but Nott answered her immediately, and after a few minutes Hermione sat down next to him and the two were absorbed in conversation. After watching them for a minute, Ron looked around the room again, wondering who to try to talk to. He caught sight of a tall black boy, and froze, stunned. He felt like he was being slapped in the face with how bloody attractive the boy was, in a way he’d never associated with blokes before. His eyes met the boy’s. He appeared to be watching Ron. Ron blinked, and when he looked back, the other boy had turned away.  
      Still somewhat unsettled from his sudden revelation, Ron made his way over to the drinks table. There were several choices there that he didn’t recognize, some of them seeming to be mixed cocktails. He took a glass of something vaguely fruity and very alcoholic, and started drinking.  
      Some time later Ron was leaning against a wall for support. He’d chatted with several people, at least some of whom were Slytherins, and had just finished having a very bizarre few minutes of conversation with Pansy Parkinson, of all people, during which he seemed to have confirmed that Ginny was currently single after not reconnecting with Harry. Pansy was now across the room chatting with Ginny. Ron wondered what he’d just done to his baby sister.  
      Every so often he’d noticed the tall black boy from before. The boy had also chatted with several people, but hadn’t settled into any real conversation with anyone, same as Ron. Ron really wanted to know who he was.  
      “Hello, Weasley,” said a voice next to him. He turned and found the boy he’d just been thinking of. He felt again that slapped-in-the-face feeling. This boy was really pretty, especially with that blurry halo of light around him. Ron gave him a drunken smile.  
      “Hi,” he said. “I’m drunk. I mean I’m Ron.” He frowned in confusion. “At least I think I am. But I don’t know who you are, so you can’t be sure.”  
      The boy shrugged, looking amused. “There’s no real reason why you should,” he said. “My name is Blaise Zabini. And yes, you are Ron. Ron Weasley, to be exact.”  
      “Oh, thanks for telling me.”  
      “You’re welcome. So, Weasley, how much have you had to drink? Did you need so much liquid courage to face the snake pit?”  
      “Snake pit?” Ron repeated, confused.  
      “Serpent den. Home of Slytherins,” Zabini explained.  
      “Oh.” Ron shook his head, then regretted it a second later. “No, tha’s not it. I had a drink, maybe a sip or two of another, and I ate lots and drank water just like Her* _hic_ *mione said to, ‘cause we’re not s’posed to get drunk tonight. Maybe I drank the water wrong.”  
      “Maybe,” Zabini agreed, looking amused again. “You should probably stop drinking for the night.”  
      “You smile nice,” Ron said.  
      “Oh.” Zabini’s smile changed to surprise. “Thanks, I guess.”  
      “Course, couldn’t blame me if it was on purpose,” Ron went on, starting to sway where he stood. “You guys were all mean to us for a long time, you know. Like Malfoy making that song about me, or Parkinson saying bad things about Hermione to the paper, or you…” He blinked. “Actually, I don’ know anything you did bad. Wa’dja do?”  
      “I don’t think I’ve done anything mean to you personally,” Zabini answered. He studied Ron, his forehead creased. “If I have, I’m heartily sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me.” He looked around the room for a minute, then back at Ron. “Listen, do you want to leave? You look like you’re not doing so well. I can help you get back to your common room.”  
      “I’m fine,” Ron said, then promptly fell down on his bum. He looked up at Zabini. “Maybe I’m not fine.”  
      Zabini grinned and helped Ron back to his feet. “Come on,” he said, “before you end up needing the hospital wing instead.”  
      He helped Ron across the room and through the entrance, then up all the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. Ron had no breath for speech as they climbed, so he didn’t say anything else. He just thought about how bloody long the walk was, how nice his bed would be when he got into it, and how pretty and helpful Blaise Zabini was being. When he was finally in his bed, Zabini actually having helped him all the way there, Ron mumbled drunkenly, “You know what, Blaizabini? For a Slytherin, you’re not half bad. I think I like you.”  
      “Sleep well, Ronald Weasley,” Zabini answered. “For a Gryffindor, you’re not so bad yourself.” He turned and left. Ron went to sleep.

 

      Ron was slightly miffed the next day when he found out that neither of his friends had noticed him missing from the party until they’d met up to return to Gryffindor Tower. But they had both spent almost the entire evening in conversation with other people. After the party Hermione started spending a lot of time with her new friend Theo, and Ron came to a realisation. He was jealous of Nott, but not as a boyfriend. It was the same sort of jealousy he felt of Malfoy spending so much time with Harry; that feeling like maybe his friends were leaving him behind. Not long after, he and Hermione had a conversation in which they decided to go back to being friends. Hermione said something about how it was rather a shame that they, as well as Harry and Ginny, didn’t work out, because it would have been so much easier to keep them all together that way. It occurred to Ron that maybe that’s why he’d wanted them all to be together. After all, with his constant fear about being left behind, having them all together as couples would have been a nice security blanket. He mentioned the idea to Hermione. She seemed surprised he’d thought of it, but agreed that it was a reasonable conclusion.  
      “Hermione,” Ron said, somewhat hesitantly, after a moment. They’d just broken up, so maybe this wasn’t the right time to ask, but he’d been wondering about something since the party. “Is it possible to like blokes as well as girls?”  
      Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Yes,” she said. “Why do you ask?”  
      “Er, well, there was this bloke at the party the other night, and he was really attractive, and I’ve never thought that about a bloke before. I mean, I’ve _known_ that guys were attractive, but I haven’t really _felt_ it before, you know?”  
      “Oh.” Hermione sat in thought for a moment before asking, “Who was it?”  
      “Blaise Zabini,” Ron said.  
      “Oh, well, pretty much everybody knows he’s gorgeous,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “He’s famous for it, as is his mother. She’s a well-known black widow.”  
      “A what?”  
      “She’s a famously beautiful witch who’s been married many times to wealthy men who’ve all mysteriously died and left her tons of money.”  
      “Oh, yeah, I remember,” Ron said. “Harry and Ginny mentioned him being in Slughorn’s compartment in sixth year. But he was surprisingly nice, Hermione. He helped me back to the common room.”  
      “It _is_ possible for Slytherins to be nice, Ron,” Hermione said, her tone amused.  
      “Yeah, fine, sure,” Ron sighed.  
      “In all seriousness, though, Ron, liking both men and women is perfectly normal. It just means you’re not straight.”  
      “I thought not straight meant gay,” Ron protested. “I’m not gay. I definitely like girls.”  
      “There are more sexualities out there than just straight and gay,” Hermione told him. “Really, sex education at Hogwarts is severely lacking. Something should be done about it.”  
      “When would we have had time for more lessons?” Ron asked in horror.  
      “There is always time for more lessons, Ron,” Hermione said patronisingly.  
      Ron grinned. For Hermione, there was always time for more lessons.

 

      Ron found himself chatting with Blaise Zabini every so often over the remainder of the school year. They didn’t become friends, per se, but they were friendly enough. He was pretty easy to talk to, although it was mostly small talk about Quidditch or lessons. Harry, in the meantime, had gotten together with Malfoy before the year was over, and Ginny and Parkinson had become fast friends, as well as Hermione and Nott. Neville was dating Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff, and Luna had an invitation from Newt Scamander’s grandson to go hunting for some rare creature or other, Ron could never remember what. The whole lot of them were standing around one afternoon a couple of weeks before their last term at Hogwarts was to end, discussing plans for the future, Harry going into Auror training, Ron going to work with George at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, Luna’s trip, Neville’s Herbology apprenticeship, and so on, and thinking about how it would be hard to see each other all together like this again.  
      “We should have some kind of meet-up,” Harry said suddenly.  
      “What do you mean?” Hermione asked.  
      “Ooooh, like the D.A.?” Luna asked.  
      “Well, sort of,” Harry said. “But I meant just a social thing. Not defence lessons like the D.A.” There was a brief pause where the D.A. was explained to those who didn’t know about it.  
      “I was thinking maybe a pub night,” Harry went on. “Every week or two we can all get together at a pub and talk. It’ll help us all stay in touch after school. Not just us here, either. Anyone can come. Any House, any age from our generation.”  
      “You know, Potter, my dearest darling, that’s not a bad idea,” Malfoy said with a smirk. “Surprising, for you.  
      “Why thank you, Malfoy, light of my life,” Harry snarked back. “I do have them occasionally.”  
      Everyone agreed, and pub night became a planned thing before they were even out of Hogwarts.  
      It was somewhat disorganised at first, with people coming and shoving their way into whatever seat they could get. After the first few meet-ups, Hermione came up with “the rules”: Since the point of pub night was to keep in touch with people you didn’t get to see much, they should sit with their old friends, instead of partners or coworkers they saw every day, and if someone was planning to come who wasn’t usually there, they should let one of the fixtures know, so they could make sure to have a big enough table.  
      After a few weeks where both Ron and George were hung-over at the shop the morning after, they established their own “rule”: one of them would have the day of pub night off, and the other would have the day after, and they’d alternate who had which day each week. That way, they’d each have a week where they’d know to take it easy, and the next week they could go as crazy as they liked.  
      Luna ended up dating Rolf Scamander before she came back from her trip, and brought him along to her first pub night, thus expanding the fixtures to twelve. Then, about half a year after they’d left Hogwarts Ginny announced that she was dating Pansy. Ron wasn’t all that surprised, but he considered himself to blame because of what he’d told Pansy at the party. He retaliated by pointing out to her that she was basically a Weasley now. It made him like her a bit more when she just smiled and said she knew. If Ron knew her at all, she’d probably turn it into a competition and try to out-Weasley the lot of them.  
      Maybe seven months after that, Hermione invited him, Harry, and Ginny to lunch and told them that she was going out with Theo Nott. She was going to tell everyone else at the next pub night. Again, Ron wasn’t surprised, except that it had taken them so long, but with this the third Gryffindor/Slytherin couple among them, he still felt compelled to comment.  
      “Seriously,” he said, “why are all of my closest friends and family falling for Slytherins? It’s just weird.” Honestly, at this point, he was used to the Slytherins. He even liked them and considered them friends, even Malfoy. But he couldn’t help but think about what all their younger selves would have had to say.  
      Harry, Hermione, and Ginny gave him knowing looks, and Hermione said, “When you fall for a Slytherin, you’ll understand.” Ron snorted and thought, _Not bloody likely._ Of course, he found out later that Hermione had already suspected that he was falling for Blaise Zabini, and had clearly shared her knowledge with Harry and Ginny, although she hadn’t had the courtesy to share it with him. And clearly, that bitch Fate had been listening, because it wasn’t so long after that that Ron realised it for himself.

 

*          *          *

 

      A week later Ron arrived home after work a few hours before he had to leave for pub night. Just as he’d settled onto the couch with some leftovers there was a knock on the door. He got up to look through the peephole and found Hermione, Ginny, Pansy, and Draco standing outside, staring expectantly at the door. _Bollocks,_ he thought, remembering the four of them whispering together at the end of the last pub night. He wondered what he was in for, and considered just ignoring them and pretending that he wasn’t home, when Hermione called through the door.  
      “We know you’re there, Ron Weasley. You open this door right now.”  
      Ron sighed and opened the door.  
      “What is it?” he asked, watching the group file in. “You know I’m going to see you guys in a few hours. What’s so urgent?”  
      “What’s so urgent, Weasley, is that we’re all really tired of hearing you mutter under your breath while Blaise leaves with other people, but never doing anything about trying to get him to leave with you,” Pansy stated bluntly.  
      Ron blinked for a second, caught off guard. Before he could come up with a response, Ginny chimed in.  
      “And you are a moron,” she said.  
      “Ginny!” Hermione hissed.  
      “Sorry, but it’s true,” Ginny went on, not looking in the least apologetic. “You just decided that you have no chance without even trying.”  
      “And you seem to think it has something to do with how you dress,” Pansy added. “Which makes you an idiot for thinking that matters, but if you think it does, you should try getting dressed up for once and go for it.”  
      “And that’s why we’re here,” Hermione put in. She reached into a bag she was holding and pulled out a shirt and a pair of trousers. She held them up. Ron took a good look at them and backed away in horror.  
      “No way am I wearing those things. They’re practically torture devices!” he protested loudly. And indeed, the trousers that Hermione was holding looked like they’d cut off his air supply within minutes of putting them on. They were made of some shiny material that was obviously designed to draw the eye, and looked to be about two sizes too small for him. As for the shirt, if it could be _called_ a shirt, it was a sleeveless travesty of the same kind of material that looked like it would cling to him like a second skin. Just looking at them made him feel like hyperventilating.  
      “Ron, you’re the one who brought up what Jared said about the way you dress,” Hermione said in her ‘now let’s be reasonable’ tone. “You clearly think that it’s important. Just try it this once and see what happens.”  
      “Hermione--” Ron tried to protest, but Ginny interrupted.  
      “We’re doing this for your own good, my dear brother. If you won’t try to change things yourself, we’re going to do it for you.”  
      “You should really be grateful to us,” Pansy added, as the three girls began to advance on him, Hermione still holding up the clothes. “After all, we took time out of our busy schedules to get you these clothes. We’re trying to help you, which is more than you’ve been doing.”  
      “Stop,” Ron cried, his voice rising in panic. “I can’t wear clothes like that, seriously.”  
      “Weasley,” Draco said. He had thus far stayed in the background, but now he addressed Ron with a wry smile. “You know who you’re up against here. There’s no way you’re getting out of this flat without putting on those clothes. You might as well just give in now.”  
      “What are you doing here with this group, anyway?” Ron demanded of him.  
      “Surprisingly, Weasley, I’m included in the group of people who would like to see you happy, and being the only one actually familiar with men’s fashion, I was required to choose the clothing,” Draco answered.  
      “I see, so you’re the one who thought that wearing boa constrictors was a good idea,” Ron muttered. There was a badly repressed snort from Ginny. “Thanks so much for that.” But he sighed. Draco was right-- up against this group, there was no way he was getting out of here without doing what they wanted. So he snatched the clothes out of Hermione’s hand. “Fine,” he snapped, “but this is not going to change anything.” He went into his bedroom to change clothes. Before he could get the door closed, Hermione tossed a pair of boots in after him. They were black lace-ups with a slight heel. Ron groaned. They really were trying to kill him.  
      Once he’d put the clothes on, he stood looking at himself in front of the mirror on his closet door. He had to give Draco credit for his choices; he actually did look pretty good. But Merlin, he couldn’t breathe in these bloody clothes. The last time he’d worn something this tight was when he, Harry, and Hermione had gone on the run from Bill’s wedding, and Hermione had accidentally packed his old jeans. And compared to these things those jeans had been positively roomy. He turned away from the mirror before he could follow that train of thought any further. He was uncomfortable enough without thinking of everything that had gone wrong after that night.  
      Once he returned from his room, the girls and Draco each gave a sign of approval before Hermione pushed him into a chair and started fussing with his hair. By the time she was done, Ron couldn’t see that it looked much different. As far as he could tell, the only difference was that now his hair was tousled on purpose, as opposed to by his shirt as he pulled it over his head, but he said nothing. When Hermione declared him done, she pulled out a jacket for him and told him to put it on and gather his things so they could go. Ron tried not to wince while getting up. If he passed out from lack of oxygen before the evening was over, he wouldn’t be surprised. It was a good thing that George was the one on duty in the shop tomorrow, because the only way he was going to get through this evening was by getting himself blindingly drunk.

 

      When Ron walked into the pub with his merry band of torturers, Blaise was already there. He stood up to let Pansy and Draco into seats and turned to greet the others when his eyes landed on Ron, and Ron noticed Blaise’s eyes travel up and down his body, a stunned expression on his face. He gaped at Ron for a moment before nodding and saying “Evening, Weasley,” and sitting back down. Feeling a bit stunned himself at Blaise’s reaction, Ron sat down next to Harry and ordered a Firewhisky. He felt like he was going to need the hard stuff tonight.  
      “What’s up with those clothes?” Harry asked him under his breath.  
      “Ask your worse half,” Ron replied. “He, Parkinson, Hermione, and Ginny showed up at my place and forced me into these.”  
      “Sorry,” Harry murmured, giving him a commiserating look as Ron’s drink arrived and he took a gulp.  
      “Yeah,” Ron muttered. He looked back at Blaise over his drink and saw Blaise’s eyes on him again. Did the clothes really make that big a difference? He guessed he did look kind of, well, _sexy,_ even if he felt bloody uncomfortable and in danger of losing his ability to procreate, but did he actually look good enough to draw Blaise’s attention? He took another gulp of his drink. Not only was he physically uncomfortable, but he felt incredibly self-conscious. More of him was on display than had ever been before. Even what was covered was on display, considering how tight the clothes were. He felt as if he were wearing a flashing sign that said ‘LOOK AT ME!’ But apparently Blaise was doing just that. As Ron worked his way through his first, and then his second, drink of the night in an attempt to drown his discomfort, he kept glancing at Blaise to find Blaise’s eyes on him. _Maybe in these clothes I’m good enough for him,_ he realised blurrily as he started in on his third drink. He looked at Blaise again. Blaise was looking around the pub before settling his eyes on Ron again. _Maybe I really should make a move,_ Ron thought, his eyes fixed on Blaise as he took another gulp of his drink. Blaise looked around the pub again before looking back at Ron. A few minutes later he did it again. And then again a few minutes after that. As Ron ordered a fourth drink, he saw Blaise’s eyes fix for a full minute on something over Ron’s shoulder. _Well, that’s the end of that,_ he thought, figuring that Blaise had chosen a target, and that if he’d had any chance in these clothes, he’d missed it while sitting here getting wasted. And then Blaise stood up abruptly, walked around the table, and, to Ron’s shock, sat down next to him.  
      “Evening, Knight,” he said, looking Ron up and down again.  
      Ron rolled his eyes. “Evening, _Pawn_ ,” he answered, speech slurred.  
      Blaise ignored his tone. “Any particular reason you’re wearing these clothes tonight? They’re not your usual style,” he asked. Ron wasn’t sure through the alcoholic haze, but he thought Blaise’s voice sounded a bit strained.  
      “My usual clothes aren’t _good enough,_ ” Ron answered sulkily. “Time to try something new. Show _everything!_ ” He laughed at himself. Merlin, he was drunk. He took a gulp from the glass that had just been placed in front of him.  
      “These certainly are attention-drawing…” Blaise started.  
      “Hey,” Ron interrupted, deciding right then to take a chance. At least the girls and Draco couldn’t say he hadn’t tried. “If you like it so much, why don’t you take me home tonight, instead of whoever it was behind me you had your eye on?”  
      Blaise blinked at him for a minute. “What?”  
      “Why don’t you take me home tonight?” Ron repeated.  
      Blaise stared at him in silence for another long moment. Then he said, voice slightly strangled, “Alas, as tempting as that offer is, I don’t sleep with people when they’re drunk.”  
      Ron thought about that for a second. He knew that it was wrong to take advantage of drunk people, but he wanted to hook up with Blaise, even just for one night, and if he hadn’t had the courage to ask him while sober _before_ , it was unlikely he’d have the guts to do it again some other time.  
      “Are you sure?” he asked.  
      “Yes, Knight, I’m sure,” Blaise answered.  
      “Fine,” Ron pouted. It seemed like Blaise wouldn’t sleep with him even in these clothes. Shows how much those girls knew. _On the other hand, he didn’t completely reject me, he only said that he wouldn’t sleep with me ‘cause I’m drunk_ , Ron thought. Maybe he’d have agreed if Ron wasn’t drunk. _Okay, last try._ “How about a date then?” If they went on a date, Ron could make sure not to get drunk.  
      Blaise sat there for yet another long moment, looking stunned again, opened his mouth, closed it again, opened and closed it again, swallowed hard, opened his mouth for the third time, seemingly at a loss for words, and Ron, watching him, felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. _Okay,_ now _he’s going to completely reject me_ , he thought, looking down at his drink.  
      “If… If you still want to go on a date with me in the morning,” Blaise finally said, “then yes.” Ron looked back at him, surprised. “I would be happy to go on a date with you. But for now, I think you should stop drinking.”  
       _Yes!_ Ron cheered inside. _It actually worked!  
      _“Okay,” he said, smiling brightly. “I’ve had enough anyway.” He pushed away his glass, put his head down on the table, and promptly fell asleep, still smiling.

 

      When Ron woke up the next morning he groaned and immediately closed his eyes again. _Bloody hell!_ Why on earth did he ever get drunk when he knew he’d have to deal with this headache the next day? He cracked his eyes open again and found that he was at home in his own bed, still fully dressed in the bloody uncomfortable clothes from last night, minus the jacket and boots, and no idea how he’d gotten there or memory of coming home. He groaned again and turned to the side, spotting a vial of hangover potion on the bedside table. He grabbed it and drained it in one go, closing his eyes again as the potion started to take effect.  
      Once his head was no longer being trampled by a herd of wild erumpents, he opened his eyes again, stood up, tore the clothes off as quickly as he could, breathed a few relieved deep breaths, and went to take a shower. _Who brought me home?_ he thought as he washed. _Someone must’ve, because I know I didn’t put out that potion myself. Not Harry or Hermione, they’d have tried to get me into my pyjamas. I wonder why whoever it was didn’t._ He must have been _really_ drunk to sleep through the night in those things. He’d been just as uncomfortable in them upon waking up as he’d been the night before. He couldn’t believe he’d actually been able to sleep in them.  
      He got out of the shower, towelled his hair dry, then went back to his room, pulled on his pyjamas, and got right back into bed. Thank Merlin it was his day off. He closed his eyes and thought back to the night before, trying to get an idea of who’d brought him home. The last thing he remembered was talking to Blaise… His eyes shot open and he sat up. _Bloody hell! Did I really proposition Blaise last night?_ He moaned. Oh, Merlin, what had he been thinking? What on earth had possessed him to do that? Of course, he knew it was the alcohol, he’d never have done it otherwise, but still. And he hadn’t stopped at that, had he? He’d asked him on a date as well after Blaise had turned him down the first time. But… Blaise had agreed to the date, hadn’t he? Had he meant it, or had he just been indulging drunk Ron? Or had he actually been so uncomfortable with Ron’s drunken come-ons that he’d thought agreeing was the only way to get Ron to stop? Ron’s face flamed and he dropped his head into his hands. _What the bloody hell is wrong with me?_ He seriously considered just burying himself in his bed for the next few weeks and maybe not facing Blaise ever again. _Way to come off like a complete wanker, Weasley._ Suddenly there was a tap at the window, and Ron looked up from his spiraling shame to see an owl outside it. He got up and opened the window, and the owl flew into his room and held out its leg. Ron took the letter, sat back on his bed, and opened it.

  _Weasley,_

_I hope you’re feeling all right this morning. I found one of your hangover potions and set it out on the night table for you. I hope you’ve found it.  
_ _Do you remember asking me if I wanted to go on a date with you last night? I don’t know how much you remember when you get drunk. I want to ask if you mean it in the bright light of the morning when you’re sober. If you don’t, I will never bring it up again. But if you do, then I repeat my acceptance and I’ll meet you tonight at The Three Broomsticks at seven. Please let me know by return owl._

_Blaise Zabini_

Ron gaped at the letter for a full minute before reading it again. _He...he’d meant it when he said yes? Yes!_ A huge smile spread across Ron’s face and he jumped up with a shout, startling the owl, which had clearly been told to wait for a response. He ran to his desk, grabbed parchment and quill, and scribbled hastily,

        _I meant it. I’ll see you tonight at The Three Broomsticks at seven.  
__Thank you for the potion._

_Ron_

      He tied the parchment to the owl’s leg and sent him off, then started to dance excitedly around his room. _I don’t believe it! It actually worked! I have a date with Blaise Zabini tonight!_ And then he tripped over something on the floor and looked down to see the clothes he’d been wearing. The giddiness drained out of him abruptly and he cursed. _The clothes._ He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. The only reason Blaise had shown any interest in him last night was that he’d been wearing those clothes. If he showed up to their date tonight in his normal date clothes, would Blaise lose interest again? His stomach sank at the thought. _Okay, I am_ not _going to lose to clothes,_ he thought determinedly. _I’ll just have to wear some similar clothes tonight._ He shuddered at the very thought. He’d been damned uncomfortable going to pub night in those things. Going on a date in them would be ten times worse. Especially a date with someone he was in love with. But after everything he’d been through over this, he wasn’t willing to risk losing this chance over what he wore. He’d just have to put up with it. He looked at the clothes again and groaned. He didn’t own anything else like these, and he couldn’t wear the same outfit again. Reluctantly he sent an owl off to Hermione asking for help, already hearing in his head all the ways in which she was going to say “I told you so.”

 

      A few hours later, Ron was the dubiously proud owner of several torturous looking outfits, including some very tight jeans and a pair of dragon-hide trousers, as well as various form-squeezing, partially see-through shirts. He’d also been informed that the clothes he’d worn last night had been snake-skin, hence Ginny’s snort at his boa constrictor comment. His skin was still crawling at the thought as he pulled on some of the new clothes and looked in the mirror. _Is this supposed to be sexy?_ he thought as he examined his reflection. _Because I don’t feel sexy. I feel like I’m back at Hogwarts wearing too small pyjamas._ And in a flash of memory he was watching Harry stalk past him to the dormitory after he’d interrupted his talk with Sirius, still stinging with jealousy over the Triwizard Tournament, but at the same time hating the way he was acting toward Harry-- just one of the times his insecurity led him to do something he’d regret. The memory shook him and he tried to brush it off, not wanting to get lost in those feelings, but it had already left him feeling as insignificant and unworthy as he’d felt then.  
      He arrived at The Three Broomsticks early out of pure nerves and sat waiting for Blaise for a few minutes before he saw him come in. Blaise stopped short when Ron stood up, looking him up and down.  
      “I guess you weren’t kidding about trying something new,” he said. Ron looked away, not having anything good to say to that. After a moment, voice somewhat tentative, Blaise added, “You… you look good. Hello, by the way.”  
      “Thanks,” Ron answered, still self-conscious and very uncomfortable, but relieved at Blaise’s reaction. He looked back at Blaise now, who was, as always, impeccably dressed himself, and said, “So do you. Hi to you, too.”  
      “Thank you,” Blaise said with a slight smile and gestured Ron to sit down again as he pulled out a chair for himself. They both sat down and there was a minute of awkward silence before Ron said,  
      “So… have you had any good games of chess recently?”  
      Blaise smiled again. “I’ve yet to meet anyone who could challenge me at chess the way you did.”  
      Ron looked down for a moment, blushing. It was all because of those chess games that he fell in love with Blaise in the first place. But the memory made him smile, because despite how uncomfortable he was, and boy was he, with the trousers cutting into him in some pretty sensitive places, he knew that they’d been good friends once, able to talk about anything. And he’d missed that. If this was more than just the one date, he could get it back. He quipped something back, and the conversation, once started, didn’t end until they said good night. Ron hoped he didn’t appear to be as uncomfortable and nervous as he felt, because despite it all he really enjoyed talking with Blaise again.  
      “I had a good time,” he said as they left several hours later.  
      “I did too,” Blaise said. He looked at Ron for a moment, as if he had something to say, but in the end said nothing. He made as if to leave.  
      Ron gathered his courage and blurted out, “Would you like to go out again tomorrow? Maybe for lunch?”  
      Blaise turned back toward Ron, looking surprised, but he smiled. “I’d love to.”  
      Ron smiled back, relieved. “Great. I’ll owl you the time and place? Or is there somewhere you’d like to go?”  
      “Anywhere’s fine, and you know I can break for lunch whenever I want. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
      “See you tomorrow,” Ron echoed. Blaise smiled again, then turned and left, turning back to wave a moment later. Ron waved back before he Apparated home. He peeled off the clothes the moment he got in the door, sighing with relief to be out of them, then got into bed. He closed his eyes. _Maybe we can have a game of chess again soon,_ he thought as he fell asleep. He’d really missed that.

 

*          *          *

 

      Ron looked up from the shop counter as the door to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes opened and Blaise Zabini walked in.  
      “Hey, Weasley,” he said.  
      “Hi,” Ron answered, ducking his head. As always, he couldn’t help noticing how incredibly attractive Blaise was.  
      “I heard you started working in your brother’s shop after we left Hogwarts. How is it so far?” Blaise asked as he looked around the shop.  
      “It’s only been a few weeks, but it’s kind of fun,” Ron said. “What have you been up to?”  
      “Oh, not much.” Blaise walked toward the counter. “The life of an independently wealthy pureblood, you know. Pretty boring. Quiet too. I could do with something to occupy my time.” He leaned on the counter. “So, I hear from our mutual friends that you’re really good at chess. The best in Gryffindor. I even remember you earning points our first year for a really well-played game.”  
      Ron’s head shot up. “You remember that?” he asked, surprised.  
      Blaise snorted. “When you go to your first ever end-of-term feast thinking that you’ve won the House Cup your first year, only to have a bunch of last-minute points handed out to the House in last place, putting them in first instead, you tend to remember.”  
      “Ah,” Ron said, ducking his head again. He didn’t really have anything to say to that. It wasn’t like he could apologise. The memory was still a happy one. One of the few times he’d actually gotten recognition along with Harry and Hermione.  
      After a slightly awkward pause, Blaise went on. “Anyway, I’ve always been the best at chess in Slytherin and I’m longing for a really good, challenging game. Would you like to play some time?”  
      Ron’s initial thought was _why would I want to play with a Slytherin?_ It was a reflexive attitude he hadn’t quite managed to overcome yet. But he pushed the thought away quickly. By now he’d gotten used to hanging around Slytherins. He and Blaise hadn’t really spent much time together, but the few times they’d talked since that inter-House party had been fine. There was, of course, the fact that Blaise was bloody gorgeous, which Ron had become _very_ aware of since realising that he was also attracted to blokes, and it was always nice to spend time with attractive people. And Ron really did want to play a good, challenging game of chess. Because as nice as it was to always win, it did get boring every so often. So after a moment, he said, “Yeah, that’d be great.”  
      “Great,” Blaise said with a relieved-looking smile. “When works for you?”  
      “I’m off the day after next week’s pub night,” Ron said. “Would that afternoon work for you?”  
      “That’d be fine. Four o’clock at my place okay?” He told Ron his address.  
      “Yeah, that’s fine. See you then.”  
      “See you then,” Blaise repeated. He straightened up and left the shop, pausing at the door to wave at Ron. Ron waved back, smiling to himself.

 

      Ron won the first game they played, but just barely. Blaise, it turned out, was a formidable chess opponent, and Ron had enjoyed the game immensely. At the end of the game, Blaise held out his hand to shake and said “good game,” and Ron took it and said “good game” back. Blaise asked if Ron would like to play again sometime, and Ron said yes without pausing to think.  
      Ron won the second time they played too, but the game was even closer that time. It had been so interesting and so challenging that Ron had never enjoyed playing chess more. They again congratulated each other on a game well played, and this time, when Blaise started to ask if he’d like to play again sometime, Ron answered yes before Blaise had even finished the question. Blaise smiled. Ron smiled back. This was fun. It was really nice to get to play a game of chess with someone who knew what he was doing. So they continued to meet up to play chess every so often, and eventually it became a regular appointment.  
      At first, they played without talking much. Ron would come, they’d play, Ron would leave. But then, one time after a game that Ron had won, as he picked up his jacket, Blaise suddenly said, “That last manoeuvre was really ingenious. How’d you think of that?” Ron started talking about different strategies, absentmindedly dropping his jacket and resettling in his chair, and before he’d noticed, a couple of hours had passed and they’d thoroughly gone over the entire game.  
      After that, at the end of each game, they’d have some tea or coffee and talk over the game, and Ron discovered that he enjoyed talking about chess almost as much as he enjoyed actually playing. The more they played and the more they talked, the more curious Ron became about Blaise himself, not just as a good-looking bloke or a talented chess player, but as a person. So one day, after reviewing their game, Ron said, “By the way, I was wondering-- how did you learn to play so well? Who taught you?”  
      Blaise sat in silence for a moment, looking like he was thinking about something. “One of my stepfathers taught me,” he finally said.  
      “Oh,” Ron answered, not really sure what to say.  
      After another brief silence Blaise elaborated, a slightly bitter smile on his face. “I’m sure you know I’ve had several. I didn’t have good relationships with most of them. But one, unlike the others, actually tried to connect with me. He was a really good chess player. One time I wandered into his study, where I wasn’t supposed to go, and saw him contemplating a board. When I asked what he was doing, instead of yelling at me to get out, he taught me to play.” He lifted his eyes, his smile a little embarrassed now. “I’m sorry if that was too personal. I’ve never told that to anyone before.”  
      “It’s okay,” Ron said. “I didn’t mean to upset you or bring up bad memories.”  
      “Oh, I’m fine.” Blaise shrugged. “At least he tried, you know?”  
      “Yeah.”  
      “So,” Blaise said, shaking off the mood, “What about you? How’d you get so good? Who taught you?”  
      “My grandfather,” Ron answered. This time he was the one who was silent for a few moments, thinking back to that time. He told Blaise about that day when everyone else had been busy and Percy refused to play anything that wasn’t a game of intelligence, so they’d ended up playing chess. They’d both sucked, but Ron had really liked it. The next time, when Percy had refused to play and told Ron to stop bothering him, he’d stolen Percy’s chessboard and played by himself. Percy had noticed after a few hours and was still yelling at him about it when their father had returned from work that day. After he’d understood the situation and scolded Ron for taking belongings without permission, his father had said “My father’s really good at chess. He’s played it ever since he was a child. If you’re really interested, Ron, I can send you to him for lessons. I’m sure he’d be glad to teach you.” Ron had enthusiastically agreed.  
      Ron had turned out to be a very quick study. Within a few years, he’d grown more skilled at chess than his grandfather. In celebration, his grandfather had given him his old chess set. It was the one time in Ron’s life that he hadn’t minded getting something used. He’d been honoured.  
      Ron sat in silence for a few moments after finishing his story. Then, without really thinking about who he was talking to, he said, “Chess has been really important to me. It was the one thing that I always knew that I could do. I went from feeling like the least important member of my family to the least important of my friends; from always being overshadowed by my brothers and the one girl to always being outshone by famous Harry Potter and brilliant Hermione Granger. Don’t get me wrong; I love my family and I love my friends. But it was really important to me to know that there was something I could do that they couldn’t. It sounds petty and I felt bad about it, but I needed it.” He brightened. “It turned out to be important, too. If I hadn’t known how to play chess so well, we never would have gotten past McGonagall’s chessboard in first year.” He looked up suddenly, becoming aware of Blaise’s very intense gaze on him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. I just… I’ve never been able to tell anyone all that before.”  
      “It’s okay,” Blaise said. “I guess you needed to get that out as much as I needed to get out my story.”  
      “Yeah,” Ron said with a small smile. “Thanks for listening.”  
      “Sure,” Blaise said. “So, do you remember that game you played against McGonagall’s chess pieces? Could you tell me about it? I’ve always wondered what the game that was worth fifty House points was like.”  
      Ron closed his eyes and thought back. He began talking about the game, as best he could remember, eventually coming to the part where he’d sacrificed himself so that Harry could checkmate the king. “...and they told me afterward that Harry did as I said, and they won,” he finished.  
      Blaise just looked at him for a minute, his gaze intense once again.  
      “What?” Ron asked, a little self-conscious.  
      “You were never the least of your friends,” Blaise said slowly, his voice deliberate. “You were the first to sacrifice yourself in order to save them and everyone else.”  
      Ron sat there in silence, stunned. He’d never thought of it like that. It had been a chess game and he’d played it to win, it’s what he always did, and especially when there were such high stakes on the outcome. But it was true, wasn’t it? He’d only been twelve at the time, and for all he’d known, the white Queen could have killed him when she’d taken him. She’d knocked him across the head with her stone arm, after all. But he’d done it without thinking twice. He’d kept Harry and Hermione safe throughout the game but had let himself be taken, both to save them and so they could go on and save everyone else from You-Know-Who. A warm feeling began to grow in Ron’s chest. He ducked his head and whispered, “Thank you.”  
      Looking back, Ron knew that this was the moment when he began to fall in love. With this person who looked at him and saw not how much he didn’t measure up to those around him, but his own worth in and of himself. Of course, Ron didn’t figure that out until much later.  
      From that time on they’d always talked after their chess games, not just about chess, but about all sorts of things. At first they’d mostly talked about light things, like Quidditch. But then Blaise had told Ron how much the way his mother had kept marrying and then disposing of people had hurt him. Almost every single one of his mother’s husbands, including his biological father, had considered him a nuisance. His mother had never really paid that much attention to him either, too busy plotting how to get rid of her current husband or on the hunt for the next one. That was why the stepfather who’d taught him chess was so important and had made such an impression on him. This had lead to further talk about family, which had then lead to Ron telling Blaise about his decision to work at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. He’d started there to help George-- he’d known that he could never take Fred’s place, but by the time they’d finished their repeated seventh year, George was still struggling. Ron had hoped that by helping him in the shop, George would come to be able to enjoy once again what had once been his favorite thing, even if the person he’d always done it with was no longer around. By the time Ron could see that George was really doing better, Ron had come to really enjoy the job and wanted to stay on. This had led to talk of the war, and they’d been able to discuss it from both their perspectives with respect and understanding. After that, it had seemed like there was nothing they couldn’t talk about. And Ron was happy.

 

*          *          *

 

      Considering Blaise’s apparent affinity for one night stands, Ron had been somewhat surprised that he hadn’t been asked back to Blaise’s place for sex after their first date. Since their second date had been a lunch date--his own fault--it made more sense that they hadn’t gone home together afterwards. But now their third date, a dinner date, was nearing its end, and Blaise didn’t seem like he was going to be making a move. Ron didn’t understand, and it was making him nervous. It wasn’t like they were strangers just getting to know each other. They’d actually been pretty good friends for a while before Ron had realised he was in love with the guy and had pulled back in a bid for self-preservation. Was he misinterpreting this whole thing? Was this just some advanced form of friendship that involved eating out together instead of playing chess, and not actually really dating? Did Blaise not want him after all?  
      Ron was getting really tired of these thoughts. They were making him even more uncomfortable than he already was. _Okay,_ he thought, _the quickest way to find out is to just invite him back to my flat instead of waiting for him to do it._ So as Blaise called for the check and started to get his things together, Ron gathered his courage and blurted out, “So, chess.”  
      Blaise looked up at him. “What about it?”  
      Ron could feel his blush going all the way to the roots of his hair. “It’s been a while since we’ve played. Would you like to, um, to come back to my place for a game?”  
      Blaise’s face took on an unreadable expression, and in the full minute of silence that followed, Ron, his heart sinking, thought, _Well, that did it. That’s the end of this._ He looked down at the table, hoping the check would come soon so he could escape as soon as possible, go home, and wallow in his utter humiliation and heartbreak. Not that he was being dramatic about it.  
      “Yes,” Blaise said quietly, but with determination. Ron jerked his head back up to look at him. “I would. I would like that very much.” There was a definite blush on his face too, which surprised Ron. He wouldn’t have expected Blaise Zabini, with all of his experience, to get embarrassed over something like this. He breathed a sigh of relief and his heart started pounding. He was taking Blaise home with him tonight.

 

      There was a moment as Ron was closing the door of his flat behind them when insecurity attacked him again and he wondered if maybe this was a misunderstanding and Blaise was expecting them to really play chess. Attempting to bury the thought and put an end to his doubts for good, he reached out, pulled Blaise toward him, and kissed him. After a split second of surprised inaction Blaise kissed him back. The kiss was passionate and perfect, and Ron felt like he was melting. He pulled back from the kiss and looked at Blaise. The look on Blaise’s face nearly took his breath away. He was looking at Ron with an expression of such pure want, Ron didn’t think he’d ever been looked at like that before. In an instant, all of Ron’s nerves and doubts flew away, and he kissed Blaise again. _Apparently he_ does _want me. Good to know._ But the physical discomfort of the clothes was becoming more pronounced the more aroused he got. He reached for the shirt buttons without stopping to think and tried to unbutton them, but his hands were trembling and he couldn’t get them open. Blaise put a hand over his.  
      “Are you sure you want this?” he asked, sounding concerned. Ron raised his eyebrows at him, his expression clearly saying _Are you an idiot? Isn’t it obvious?_ “You’re shaking,” Blaise said.  
      “Well, yeah,” Ron retorted, “that can happen to a person when they’re aroused and about to get something they’ve wanted for a while.”  
      Blaise’s mouth opened and he just stared at Ron for a second. Then he placed his hands over Ron’s buttons and asked, “May I?” Ron nodded. Blaise undid the buttons for him, and Ron peeled off the damn shirt with a sigh of relief. Blaise moved to his jeans, looking at him for permission. Ron nodded again. Blaise undid the button and zipper, pulling the jeans down. Ron kicked them off, drawing in a big breath. For the first time that night he finally felt like he could breathe properly. He pushed down his underpants and kicked them off to the side. Blaise inhaled sharply.  
      “May I touch you?” he asked.  
      “Please.”  
      Blaise placed a hand on Ron’s chest, over his heart. Ron groaned as his heart sped up even more. He reached toward Blaise’s shirt and began to undo the buttons as Blaise trailed his hands over Ron’s chest. Ron continued down to Blaise’s trousers, hands faltering as he gasped from the sensation of Blaise circling his nipples, but undid them and pushed them down. Blaise pulled them off, along with his underpants, then removed his open shirt and let it drop to the floor. Ron stepped back to take in the sight of him, licking his lips as he looked Blaise up and down. Merlin, this man was gorgeous. He looked back at his face with a grin and held out his hand. Blaise took it. Ron pulled Blaise over to the couch, too impatient to make it to his bedroom--it had been a while for him. He hadn’t had sex with anyone since he and Jared broke up. And this was _Blaise!_ He knew he wasn't going to last long, and he wanted to make sure that Blaise enjoyed himself before he couldn't hold back anymore. He gently pushed Blaise down onto the couch, climbed on top of him, and kissed him again. Then he moved down, kissing his neck, then collarbone, then his chest, over his heart, feeling the racing beat beneath his lips, before kissing his way over to one nipple and giving it a light lick. Blaise gasped and moved beneath him. Ron smiled to himself. He knew how sensitive nipples could be. They were such a hotspot for him, after all. Looked like they were for Blaise as well. He closed his lips around the nipple and sucked gently. Blaise moaned. After a few moments Ron released the nipple and kissed his way over to the other nipple, closing his mouth over that one as well. He fondled the first nipple with his fingers as he sucked a little harder on the second one. He could feel Blaise’s erection growing harder against his leg as he played with his nipples, and when Ron gently scraped his teeth over the nipple he was sucking, Blaise’s body convulsed violently under him. Ron trailed his free hand down Blaise’s body and took his erection in hand, stroking slowly. Blaise gave a surprised yelp at the first touch, then moaned with every stroke. Ron released his nipple from his mouth and sat over him, watching his face. It was fascinating to watch this man who always seemed so poised and in control come undone beneath him. It was also a huge turn-on. Ron could feel himself coming closer to orgasm without even being touched himself. He could tell that Blaise was getting close too and reached down to cup his testicles with his free hand. After only a few moments Blaise screwed up his face and released a strangled cry as he came over Ron’s hand. Ron stroked him through it until Blaise’s body went limp and his face relaxed into a look of pure bliss. Ron took himself in hand; it wouldn’t take much to get himself to orgasm too. But after only a few moments Blaise opened his eyes, saw what Ron was doing and put his hands on Ron’s shoulders, pushing him off and down until their positions were reversed, and Ron was lying on the couch with Blaise on top of him.  
      “Let me do it?” he asked, looking Ron in the eye. Ron groaned and nodded, no breath left for words. Blaise took him in hand and stroked him. It didn’t take long before Ron was right on the brink of orgasm. Blaise leaned down and kissed him, the first kiss he’d initiated, and that tipped him over the edge. He cried out into the kiss as he came. He wrapped his arms around Blaise, clinging to him through his orgasm, his hold loosening only slightly as his body relaxed.  
      They got up after a while and got cleaned up. Afterwards, Blaise stood in the middle of the room for a minute, looking unsure, glancing from Ron to his clothes, to the door, and back to Ron again. Ron wondered if Blaise usually went home after his hook-ups, and felt a cold shard of panic go through him. Before he could think about it, he held out his hand again and said, “Stay the night with me?”  
      A look of relief crossed Blaise’s face, surprising Ron, and he smiled and took his hand. Ron led him to the bedroom and they got into his bed. Ron lay on his side, facing Blaise.  
      “May I put my arm around you?” Blaise asked hesitantly after a moment.  
      “Of course,” Ron said with a pleased smile. “I never turn down a good cuddle.”  
      Blaise put his arm around Ron and pulled him close. Ron curled into him, pressing his ear against his heart. He could hear the steady beat of Blaise’s heart underneath him. It was soothing. Ron yawned and closed his eyes.  
      “Hey,” Blaise said. Ron opened his eyes again and blinked up at him. “Would it be all right if I, um, explored you a bit more, next time?” His voice sounded a bit hesitant. For a brief moment Ron wondered why, before all thought left his exhausted brain. He closed his eyes again.  
      “That’d be nice,” he mumbled sleepily, and fell asleep in Blaise’s arms, curled against his chest.

 

      The next day a little before lunchtime Ron saw Blaise outside the shop door, about to come in. He was about to call out a greeting, when in the split second while Blaise was opening the door, before he could yet see Ron, Ron remembered.  
      “Oh shit.” Ron ducked down behind the counter and out through the door to the back room. He couldn't let Blaise see him like this, not in his work robes. While they were nicer than his everyday clothes, they were still the magenta robes that Fred and George had picked out when they’d started the shop, and clashed just as horribly with his hair as they had done with theirs. From the front of the shop he could hear Blaise calling to see if anybody was there but he couldn't answer. His whole body was trembling.  
      George came in from the office and stopped short at the sight of Ron.  
      “Ron, what's wrong?” he asked him. “What are you doing back here?”  
      “Sorry, George,” Ron said. “I feel really sick. Is it okay if I go home? Can you cover for me today?”  
      “Sure…” George said dubiously. The look on his face told Ron that he didn't believe him, but in an uncharacteristic show of delicacy, he didn't ask anything else. He went out to the front of the shop. “Oh, hi, Zabini.” Ron could hear the surprise in his voice. He ducked out of the shop before he could hear any more, and before George could come back to question him, and went home.  
      When he arrived at his flat he found an owl from Blaise waiting for him, saying that something had come up and could they meet tomorrow at eight o’clock instead of seven. He wrote back that that was fine and sent the owl off. He stood at the window watching it fly for a few minutes while he thought. He was annoyed at himself for not thinking of this. Blaise came into the shop two or three times a week. He should have realised he’d need to do something about his clothes. _But what can I do?_ he wondered. _I have to wear our work robes at the shop. Wait. Idiot. They’re robes. I’ll just have to wear those clothes under them at the shop. Blaise usually comes in when the shop’s quiet. He seems to just_ know _as well as George and I do what hours the shop’s likely to be empty. I can watch for him, and just take off the robes before he comes in._ He groaned at the idea. It was bad enough wearing those bloody things on dates. Having to wear them during all of his work hours was going to be bloody torture. But what else could he do? He had no way of knowing beforehand on which days Blaise would come and on which he wouldn’t, so it would have to be every workday.  
      Ron sighed and flopped down on his bed. He really hated those clothes. It wasn’t just that they were physically uncomfortable, although they seriously were; he never felt like he had enough room to breathe in them. It was also that every time he’d put them on he’d found himself remembering some time when he was wearing too-small or otherwise uncomfortable clothes as a kid and had felt like the least important person in his world, which led to memories of doing something he regretted. It could be walking out of that tent, or turning on Harry during the Triwizard Tournament, or being nasty to Hermione about Crookshanks or Krum, and if it wasn’t one of those, there were a whole host of others to plague him. With every memory he sank further back into the feelings of insecurity and inferiority he’d tried so hard to leave behind, and it was killing him. Since he’d started wearing those clothes he hadn’t been feeling like himself around Blaise. He’d managed to push through it, and hopefully Blaise hadn’t noticed, but he’d felt uncomfortable and nervous on each date so far. But last night, once out of the clothes, he’d felt like himself again, relaxed and comfortable with Blaise the way he’d been when they’d still been playing chess. He’d also felt like he could finally breathe properly. Not that he hadn’t had any moments of insecurity, but it had been so much better. He smiled at the memory of falling asleep curled up against Blaise, and of waking up next to him this morning.  
      But especially after last night, with those memories fresh in his mind, he couldn’t take the risk of Blaise losing interest in him. So no matter how much he hated them, he was stuck wearing those damn clothes. 

 

      The moment Ron stepped into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes the next morning, George confronted him. “Okay, Ron, what in the name of all that is mischievous was that yesterday?” he demanded. “Why’d you duck out on Zabini?”  
      Ron hesitated, unable to meet George’s eye. A sudden look of apprehension crossed George’s face.  
      “Ron,” he started, worry clear in his voice, “you were trembling yesterday. Did he, well, um…”  
      It took Ron a minute to realise that George was trying to ask if Blaise had hurt him in any way, because the very idea was so foreign to him. “NO!” he cried. “ _Merlin_ , no! It’s not anything like that!” He supposed from his reaction the day before that it was a reasonable conclusion, but it had honestly never occurred to him that someone would interpret his behaviour that way.  
      George relaxed, looking relieved, but then he narrowed his eyes. “Okay, so then seriously, what in the name of the Venerated Marauders is going on?”  
      Clearly, George wasn’t going to let him get away with not answering. Ron sighed. “I didn’t want him to see me in my work clothes,” he said reluctantly.  
      George blinked, looking quizzical. “What? Why not? He’s seen you in them a million times. He’s here more often than anyone aside from us.”  
      “I know,” Ron muttered. “But that was before we started dating.”  
      George raised an eyebrow. Ron sighed again. He was about to be mercilessly mocked, he just knew it.  
      “You know those clothes I was wearing to pub night? Ginny, Hermione, Pansy, and Malfoy forced me into them. Blaise actually showed interest in me when I showed up in them, and now we’re going out. So I don’t want him to see me in my usual clothes because I’m afraid he’ll lose interest again if he does.”  
      George’s mouth dropped open in shock. He started to say something but was interrupted.  
      “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Ron and George turned toward the door. Ginny was standing there giving Ron a look that clearly expressed her doubt of his intelligence.  
      “You took the words right out of my mouth, little sister,” George said, grinning at her. He looked back at Ron. “You’re being an idiot. You know that, right? _Of course_ he won’t lose interest because of your _clothes_.”  
      “Really, Ron,” Ginny added. “Putting you in those clothes was just supposed to be enough of a change to give you the confidence to make a bloody move already. It wasn’t supposed to take away more. Sheesh.”  
      “Can we please not talk about it?” Ron grumbled. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked Ginny.  
      “Eh, I was bored,” she said. “The paper’s sent Pansy out of town for a story until tomorrow and they didn’t give me anything to work on today. So I came to help out here.”  
      “How can you be bored already this early in the morning?” Ron demanded. “You are so weird.”  
      “Pot, kettle,” Ginny said breezily. “You’re the one who thinks his boyfriend is only interested in his clothes. Who’s the one who’s weird?”  
      George chuckled. “You’ve got to admit, she has a point.”  
      Ron blushed and turned his face away from his siblings, his shoulders hunched. “Seriously, stop,” he said quietly. The sudden shift in his demeanor seemed to do the trick. Both George and Ginny went quiet and looked at him for a moment. Then George turned to Ginny and began leading her to the back room.  
      “So, Ginny, what will it be today? Want to help with a demonstration of the new Infatuation Confection? It’ll make you stare dreamy-eyed at the person nearest you when you eat it. Some of our testers have even been moved to recite ludicrously lame love lines to that person.”  
      “Yeah, Pansy wouldn’t be _too_ mad about that,” Ginny answered sarcastically. “She’d only kill me twice before forgiving me.” Their voices trailed off. Ron waited until they were out of sight before he slipped into the bathroom to put on some of the date clothes under his work robes.

 

      By the time Hermione arrived to pick him up for lunch, Ron was cursing under his breath and counting down to when he could get out of the stupid things.  
      “Ron, what’s wrong?” Hermione asked, alarmed.  
      Ron looked up. “Hermione, thank Merlin. Excuse me for a sec, I’ll be right back.” He ducked into the back room and changed to his normal clothes. Not wanting Ginny and George to see his other clothes, he stuffed them in a bag and took them with him.  
      “Sorry about that. Hi, Hermione,” he said, coming back to the front of the shop with the bag behind his back. “So, where are we eating?”  
      “Ron, what’s in the bag?” Hermione asked, her eyes narrowed.  
      “Nothing important,” Ron said, shrugging. _Please stop asking questions, Hermione,_ he prayed silently.  
      “Fine,” Hermione sniffed. “Come on.” She led him from the shop and down Diagon Alley. She’d said there was a new place in Muggle London she wanted to try. Ron guessed they were going there.  
      Once they were seated, Ron picked up his menu. He was trying to decide between being adventurous or just opting for the fish and chips as usual, when Hermione said, “Ron, what is this? Why are you carrying around some of the clothes we got you? You weren’t wearing them at work, were you?”  
      Ron dropped the menu. Hermione had his bag in her lap, holding up the shirt he’d been wearing in one hand.  
      “Hermione, put that back,” he hissed. “Who told you you could take my bag?”  
      Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ve known you since you were eleven years old, Ron. I know when something’s wrong. You looked awful when I came into the shop, and then tried to hide this bag. What’s going on with you?”  
      Ron sighed for the umpteenth time that day, and snatched shirt and bag away from her, shoving them under the table. Hadn’t he had enough of being questioned this morning? No, of _course_ not, because this was Hermione and she was utterly incapable of leaving things alone when she thought her friends were in trouble. He smiled at the thought. It was simultaneously one of the greatest and one of the most annoying things about her.  
      On the other hand, this was Hermione, and she almost always knew what to do. If she was going to pester him about it anyway, he might as well just tell her what was happening. She might be able to help.  
      He told her all of it. How uncomfortable he’d been with the clothes when she and the others had shown up with them. How he’d gotten so completely drunk because of that discomfort that he’d actually first propositioned Blaise, and then asked him out. How, because Blaise had never seemed interested before, he was afraid to let Blaise see him wearing his usual clothes now. How Blaise had come into the shop yesterday and he’d ducked out so Blaise wouldn’t see him in his work robes. How he’d been wearing those bloody clothes under his robes all morning in case Blaise came in again. And he told her how much wearing the clothes was distressing him, both physically and psychologically. How insecure and nervous and uncomfortable they made him.  
      Uncharacteristically, Hermione let him talk without interruption. When he finished, she looked at him solemnly.  
      “I’m sorry, Ron,” she said. “We should have listened to you when you said you didn’t want to wear the clothes we’d brought. We honestly thought that it would give you confidence to dress up for once, since you mentioned the way you usually dress as a reason why someone wouldn’t want you. That’s all.”  
      “Ginny said something like that this morning,” Ron muttered. “I don’t get what you mean. I mentioned a bunch of things. Why focus on the clothes, if you didn’t think I needed to change them?”  
      “Clothes are easy to change,” Hermione answered with a shrug. “The rest of the things you mentioned were matters of perception and much less given to a ‘quick fix,’ so to speak. Changing clothes or hairstyle or makeup or shoes is also a fairly common practice for people looking for a boost in confidence. Especially women, I think. I was really nervous before I asked Theo out. I’d never asked anyone out before, you know. Viktor had asked me, and you and I sort of just fell together. So before I went to meet up with him that day, I put on some makeup. Not a lot; I’m not sure he even noticed it. But enough to make me feel a little different, to steady my confidence. Of course I didn’t need to. His answer would have been the same if I hadn’t. But it made me feel stronger. It was all about me.”  
      “No offence, Hermione, I do get what you’re trying to say, but you and Theo getting together was pretty bloody obvious by then. You’d been building toward it since the inter-House party. Blaise and I are a completely different story,” Ron said sullenly.  
      “The _point,_ Ron,” Hermione said, with a touch of impatience, “is that the clothes were meant for _you_. They had nothing to do with being necessary for gaining Blaise’s interest, and everything to do with trying to give you confidence. You didn’t _need_ them to begin with.” Her voice softened. “And honestly, when you sent an owl the next day for help with getting more, I thought that you’d just liked the way they made you feel and wanted some around for special occasions. I thought they’d done exactly what we’d meant them to. I never dreamed they’d have the opposite effect, or that you’d think Blaise wouldn’t want you without them. Again, I’m sorry we didn’t listen to you. We should have. Even if they hadn’t ended up having this effect on you, we still shouldn’t have forced you. That was wrong. But Ron, you can’t honestly think that Blaise is only interested in your clothes, can you? He’s liked you for a while, you know.”  
      Ron stared at her for a minute. “What gave you that idea?” he asked.  
      “Well, I’d suspected it beforehand,” Hermione said thoughtfully, “but when you started going out with Jared I was almost sure. When you brought Jared with you to pub night that first time and announced that you were going out, you might not have noticed Blaise’s expression, but I did. As I said, I’d thought he might have feelings for you, so I was watching him. He looked stunned for a moment, then pained. He used to watch you two across the table with this sad, wistful expression.” She looked at him pointedly. “Do you realise that that’s when he started taking people home with him most pub nights? He’d never done that before then.”  
      Ron did remember that, actually. He remembered how much it had hurt, even though he’d had no right to be hurt, since he was going out with someone else. But it had only convinced him that he’d made the right choice in pulling away. Just remembering that first person Blaise had taken home from the pub had made him sure he had no chance. He really didn’t see how Hermione had come to the conclusion that Blaise was interested in him then. If anything, it seemed to him to prove the opposite.  
      “If you were so sure he had feelings for me, why didn’t you say anything to me about it when I told you I was in love with him?” he countered.  
      “I didn’t say anything because I’d never heard it from him, and I didn’t want you to get hurt if I was wrong,” Hermione explained. “But considering that you’re going out now, I’m sure. You told me yourself that you asked him home for sex before asking him for a date. If he was really only interested in the way you look in your new clothes, why would he be dating you? Why not just sleep with you after the first date, and then call it quits?”  
      Ron shrugged. That still stumped him completely. He had no idea what was going on in Blaise’s head. But he couldn’t just dismiss the fact that Blaise had never shown interest in him before. If it wasn’t because of the clothes, what else could it be?  
      Hermione sighed. “Just ask him, Ron. Ask him if it’s really you he wants, or just you in those clothes. I’m sure he’ll say it’s really you. But even if he doesn’t, even if he does say that if you were wearing your normal clothes he’d drop you in a second, unlikely as that is, wouldn’t it be better to know that now? You know you can’t build a lasting relationship with someone by pretending to be something you’re not. We both know that.” She gave him a serious look. He looked away from her.  
      “I love him, Hermione,” he said quietly. “I want to be with him for as long as he’ll let me. Even like this.”  
      Hermione looked at him sadly. He returned a small, self-deprecating smile. Because he knew that she knew him, and she knew that he’d take what he could get, even if it broke his heart in the end, because he never believed that he could have more. As hard as he’d worked to leave that part of himself behind, that part of himself that never believed that people would want him, it was an ingrained reaction that he’d probably never entirely shake. That was something that he, Harry, and Hermione all had in common, something that had bound them together even when they hadn’t realised it themselves.  
      “Can we just get lunch already?” he murmured. “George will have my head if I come back late after skipping out yesterday.”  
      “Okay, Ron,” Hermione agreed softly. “But please think about what I said, all right?”  
      “All right,” Ron said. But despite Hermione’s best efforts he didn’t feel at all reassured. He just knew that he couldn’t take the risk of ending his connection to Blaise again. It had hurt too much the first time.

 

*          *          *

 

      Some weeks after Hermione’s announcement that she was _finally_ officially going out with Theo, she, Harry, and Ron were having dinner together, and Hermione, as someone in a new relationship was wont to do, was talking about her latest date with Theo and how happy she was. At some point Ron tuned her out, as he had a habit of doing when she went on like this, and let his mind wander. He ended up thinking about the last time he’d seen Blaise. They’d had a game of chess a couple days ago. It had been a good game, it always was, and afterward they’d gotten into a completely ridiculous argument over the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match from their repeated seventh year. Ron smiled as he remembered how mussed Blaise’s hair had gotten from his running his hands through it so often while they’d argued. In all the months since they’d become friends, he’d never seen the usually perfectly put-together Blaise Zabini let himself get that disheveled, and all because of a silly argument that they were both laughing their way through. _He looked so adorable,_ Ron mused. _Seriously, I just wanted to go over there and tousle his hair even more myself._ He closed his eyes and pictured doing just that. Imaginary Blaise scowled at him for it, and imaginary Ron grinned and leaned down to kiss him…  
      Ron’s eyes flew open. What had he just been thinking? Had he just imagined _kissing_ Blaise? Sure, he knew the guy was hot. He’d known that from the beginning. But he’d gotten over that initial “Merlin, he’s gorgeous” reaction whenever he caught sight of him ages ago when they’d started to become friends. Playing chess with a bloke every week or so for several months tended to build up resistance to that sort of charm. Or so he’d thought. But he hadn’t even been thinking about Blaise’s attractiveness right before he’d pictured… _that_. He’d only been thinking that Blaise had been adorable with his mussed hair… Wait, he’d been thinking that Blaise was _adorable!_ Not beautiful, not sexy, adorable. In an “I want to bundle him up in my arms and squeeze the breath out of him” sort of way. He’d been… thinking about Blaise to begin with! Here he was having dinner with his two best friends that he’d known since he was eleven, and it was so hard to find time to get together with just the three of them, and he was thinking about _Blaise!_ He went rigid in his chair and his face went pale as the realisation hit him. _Merlin’s beard, I’ve bloody well gone and fallen for Blaise Zabini._ Damn _it!_ Swift on its heels was the darkly humorous thought, _Oh, hell, I went and fell for a Slytherin after all. Hermione was right. Of course she was. She’s going to rub this in my face forever.  
      _“Ron?” Hermione’s voice broke into his thoughts. He looked over at her. She was looking at him in concern. A glance at Harry showed that he too looked worried. “You’ve gone terribly pale,” Hermione said anxiously. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling all right?”  
      “I’m fine,” Ron said, attempting a smile. It failed miserably. He should have known better.  
      Hermione gave him a pointed look. “You’re clearly not fine,” she said. “What’s up?”  
      Ron hated lying to his friends, but he was _not_ telling them this. “My stomach just started hurting,” he said. “Do you guys mind if I go home?”  
      “Not at all,” Hermione said, still looking at him suspiciously. “Go home and rest. I hope you feel better tomorrow.”  
      “Yeah, it’s fine,” Harry added. “Feel better, okay?”  
      “Thanks, guys,” Ron said. He gathered his things and went home.

 

      “Why, why, _why_ did I have to go and fall for Blaise Zabini?” Ron moaned, pacing around his room. “I had quite enough of that whole ‘being in love with someone out of my league’ thing with Hermione. I _really_ don’t want to go through that again. Seriously, I have absolutely no chance here. He’s bloody gorgeous in a way that announces itself to the entire world, he’s filthy rich thanks to that awful mother of his, he’s self-employed so he can make himself available whenever you want him, he’s incredibly kind, really smart, and very observant, he’s… he’s…” Ron sighed and flopped down on his bed. “He’s bloody perfect, isn’t he? No wonder I fell for him. But he’s never shown any interest in the people who try to chat him up at pub night, so either he picks people up somewhere else, or else he’s pretty damn choosy. As well he should be. He could probably get anyone he wanted. Why would he want me? I’m just… me. An okay-looking bloke who sort of fell into a job that was built by my brothers and would have had no place for me if not for, well…” Another sigh. “I’m pretty dense, apparently only have the emotional range of a teaspoon, and have a tendency to be nasty when I feel inferior or insecure. Hell, _I_ wouldn’t want me.” He snorted suddenly. “Plus, I’m here talking to myself, so clearly I must be crazy. So, yeah. No chance. Thank you so much, Fate, you utter _bitch!_ ”  
      He lay on his bed for a while, staring into space, continuing to think of all the reasons he had no chance. They ranged from Blaise never having shown interest in blokes to Blaise’s always perfectly-turned-out appearance contrasted with Ron’s perpetually disheveled hair and not-quite-too-big, comfortable clothes, with a detour to how Blaise never called him by his name.  
      It wasn’t that he’d ever minded the nickname Blaise had given him. He even liked it. They’d been joking around a few months ago, trying to decide what chess pieces they’d be if they had to choose, and Blaise had eventually said, “I know what piece you’d be, Weasley.”  
      “Oh yeah?” Ron had asked. “What’s that?”  
      “A knight,” Blaise had responded with a teasing smile. “Brave and true, and sacrificing yourself for the greater good at the tender age of twelve, am I right?” He’d nudged Ron with his elbow.  
      Blushing at the memory, Ron had retorted, “Well if we’re going by our personalities at the age of twelve, then you must be a pawn. You know, blindly going along with whatever you’re told.”  
      “Eh, I was twelve,” Blaise had said airily. “I didn’t know any better. I got over it. You didn’t though. I think I’ll call you ‘Sir Knight’ from now on.”  
      “I will refer to you as ‘Miserable Pawn’ every time you do,” Ron had threatened. Blaise had merely chuckled.  
      That had been the start of it. From then on Blaise had called him “Sir Knight” when teasing him, and Ron had called him “Miserable Pawn” right back, which had eventually been shortened to just “Knight” and “Pawn.” But then they’d had a talk about how Blaise had changed during the war, and Ron hadn’t been so comfortable calling him a pawn anymore. Even though it had been a joke, there were some very negative associations with the idea. So, while there had still been times when he’d used the nickname, he’d started calling him ‘Blaise’ most of the time instead. But Blaise had continued to call him “Knight” when they were alone. Which had been okay with Ron at the time. It was a constant reminder of the first time they’d really talked, Blaise’s startling comment, and that warm feeling he’d felt.  
      But now, as he lay on his bed thinking of all the reasons why falling for Blaise had been a terrible idea, it seemed different. Blaise _only_ used that nickname when they were alone. At pub night, or if there were other people around when he came into the shop, he still called Ron “Weasley.” He’d never once called him “Ron.” Which made it seem like they weren’t as close as Ron had thought. The thought made him sad, and he hoped it wasn’t true. But if Blaise found out about his feelings, it would become true, even if it wasn’t now. It would make things awkward and uncomfortable.  
_Okay,_ Ron thought, _the best thing I can do is just distance myself until I can get these feelings under control. It’s only a crush right now, right? Nothing I can’t get over if I just pull back for a while. No need for things to get weird with us. Just for a while until I get over this, and when I’m back to only feeling friendship, I can start things up again. If he still wants to._ He felt a stab of pain, but quickly pushed it aside. He could do this.

 

      When Blaise came into the shop to confirm the time for their next game, Ron cancelled with an apology and the excuse that something had come up at work. He didn’t suggest a different time, the way he usually would if he had to cancel. After the moment of silence in which he didn’t do it, something like disappointment flashed across Blaise’s face, and his expression dimmed a bit. He shrugged, said something about how he understood, work was work, after all, and left. Ron felt guilty. He was trying to do the best thing for himself here, but he didn’t want to hurt Blaise in the process. So the next time Blaise came into the shop and asked if he’d like to come over for a game of chess, Ron accepted. If he pulled away too quickly, all at once, Blaise would be both hurt and suspicious. Ron didn’t want either one to happen. But for most of the game he was absentminded and distracted, leading to Blaise winning much more easily than he usually would. Blaise asked him if anything was wrong. He said no, that he was just tired from work, and apologised. Blaise told him to go home and get some rest. He added with a smile that he’d expect a better game next time. Ron tried to smile back, but he’d never been very good at feigning feelings he didn’t have. It came out more like a grimace, and a flash of worry crossed Blaise’s face. Ron left before Blaise could ask him anything else.  
      The next day a customer who had come into the shop several times over the last few weeks asked Ron out to dinner that night. Ron thought about it. He hadn’t had much luck before with other customers who’d asked him out. They’d usually lasted a date or two but didn't really go anywhere. On the other hand, this man had actually spent a few weeks talking to Ron before asking him out. He was fairly attractive, and chatting with him over the last few weeks had been easy, pleasant, and interesting. And Ron was trying to suppress his feelings for Blaise before they became any more serious. What better way to do it than by focussing his feelings on someone else? This man wanted Ron, which Blaise never would. So he said yes. The man grinned, said “See you then,” and left. Ron watched him leave, feeling slightly uneasy. There was a small part of him that was whispering that this was the Lavender Brown thing all over again, taking what he could get, while trying to prove that at least someone wanted him. But he ignored that voice and went on his date with Jared Collins that night.

 

      Ron and Jared were sitting together at pub night, which was technically against the rules as originally suggested by Harry and formalised by Hermione, but Ron didn’t care. In the last week and a half they’d gone on several dates and things were going well. Jared was fun and easy to be around, and he kissed like it was an art form, and he’d mastered it. When they’d decided that afternoon to officially call themselves a couple, Ron had decided that it was time to tell his friends, so he’d invited Jared to come with him.  
      “So Ron, who’s this incredibly handsome specimen you’ve brought with you tonight?” Ginny asked cheekily after everyone had gotten their first drinks. Pansy reached over and whacked her on the arm. Ginny grinned and blew Pansy a kiss.  
      Ron rolled his eyes. “You’ll have to excuse my sister,” he said to Jared. “She thinks she’s witty.”  
      “It’s fine,” Jared had said with a laugh. “I’ve got three sisters. I know what it’s like. Are you going to answer her question?”  
      “Yes, I am,” Ron said. He stood up. “Everyone, this is Jared Collins. He’s officially my boyfriend, as of today. So please behave. I don’t want you to scare him off.” He sat back down with a grin.  
      There was a round of congratulations from everyone. Lee Jordan, who was sitting next to a girl who Ron thought had been in Ravenclaw in Lee’s year, gave him a thumbs up, and Justin Finch-Fletchley stood up from his seat between Ernie Macmillan and Susan Bones to clap him on the back.  
      “That’s… that’s great, Ron,” Hermione said, but she wasn’t looking at them. Probably off in dreamland about her beloved Theo, Ron thought. It didn’t matter. He was feeling pretty good. He liked Jared, and he was feeling optimistic about his chances of quashing his tiny little crush on Blaise. There were some playful wishes of luck to Jared that had Ron rolling his eyes some more, but everything was fine. Everything was good.  
      Some hours later he noticed a bloke approaching the table, heading for Blaise. Despite himself, he kept watching. Blaise had never responded to attempted pick-ups before from men or women. But when the man spoke to Blaise, Blaise turned toward him, looked him up and down, and then smiled and flirted back. Ron felt his heart plummet past his stomach and settle somewhere in his legs. The man was beautiful: tall, tanned, with curly auburn hair, bright blue eyes, and the muscles of a Beater. Almost beautiful enough to match Blaise himself. Evidently Blaise thought so too. _So it’s not that he isn’t attracted to blokes,_ Ron thought. _He just didn’t want_ me _. Because I was right in front of him for months and he never showed any interest. Guess I was right. I’m not good enough for him._ For the first time that night, Ron’s eyes were fixed on Blaise. He watched Blaise talk to the man, smile at him, and eventually leave with him, and as he watched he felt like his heart was being torn to shreds. He felt pain and jealousy the likes of which he hadn’t felt since that bloody Horcrux had worked on his every insecurity, first causing him to leave Harry and Hermione, and then nearly to turn on Harry with its taunting before he’d killed the damn thing. This time he didn’t have a Horcrux to blame for the severity of the jealousy he was feeling. It would have been so much better if he did.  
      “Hey, what’s wrong?” said a voice next to him. “You’ve been staring off into space for a while. Is everything okay?” He turned to the voice and saw Jared looking at him worriedly. Ron felt like the lowest jackass in the world. He’d been so happy earlier, but as soon as he’d seen that man approach Blaise he’d forgotten all about Jared. He knew in that moment that this thing with Jared probably wouldn’t work. He’d evidently fallen harder for Blaise than he’d realised. That wasn’t fair to Jared at all.  
       _No,_ he thought determinedly, _I chose to go out with Jared knowing that I had feelings I was trying to get rid of. Just because they’re stronger than I originally thought doesn’t mean I can’t still do it. I’m going to give it my best shot, at least. We both deserve that much._ He smiled at Jared. “Just thinking,” he said.

 

      When Blaise came into the shop a couple of days later to invite Ron to a game of chess, Ron refused with the excuse of meeting Jared. There was a pause before Blaise said “Next time, then.” But between work becoming more intense with his shifting from employee to co-owner, and going on dates with Jared, Ron’s time really was taken up. Eventually the invitations stopped coming. Blaise never did get that better game next time. And Ron missed that time with him. He missed being his friend. But he was sure he was doing the right thing. Sitting around mooning after someone he couldn’t have wasn’t going to do him any good. Nor was it fair to Jared. This way there was still a chance that he’d be able to overcome the feelings, and then, if Blaise was still interested, he could go back to being his friend.  
      Even after they stopped playing chess, though, Blaise still came into the shop every so often. Although at first his coming in so often had just been to set, confirm, or cancel and reschedule a time for them to play, after the first few times he’d taken to asking about some of the products. Sometimes he’d asked about things in connection with his own research. So now he still came in, chatted with Ron for a few minutes, asked what new products they were developing or what was new on the shelves, and then left again. It seemed to Ron that Blaise was actually coming in more often now than before. It certainly wasn’t the same as when they’d been playing chess, the level of closeness between them had lessened considerably, but it got to the point where Blaise was coming into the shop two or three times a week. Ron couldn’t very well tell him that he was interfering with Ron’s plan to get over him so he should stop coming, so he tried to be his usual self, and he thought he mostly succeeded.

 

      It didn’t really matter in the end. Jared broke up with him after a few months. There’d been some bitterness on his part over it, causing him to fling out some things which he probably had no idea would leave a lasting mark on Ron. But he was understandably angry. Although Ron believed that Jared was not specifically aware of his feelings for Blaise, he’d still known that he wasn’t the most important person in Ron’s heart, and that Ron was more invested in his friends than in their relationship. Ron had felt terrible when he’d realised that Jared knew that. He’d known from the start that what he was doing wasn’t fair to Jared, but he’d stubbornly buried his head in the sand, and Jared had gotten hurt. He hadn’t wanted that. So he watched Jared leave without flinging any angry words in return. Probably a first for him. After Jared was gone, though, he broke out the good stuff that he rarely let himself drink, both for financial and for low-tolerance-related reasons, and had spent the rest of the night calling himself every bad name he could think of.

 

      The first pub night after Jared had broken up with him, Ron drank more than he knew he should. He knew exactly how much he was going to hate himself in the morning, but he figured he deserved it. He was muttering drunkenly to himself about the woman Blaise was leaving with when Hermione took his arm and dragged him away from the table. Harry quickly got up and followed.  
      “Will you give it a rest, Ron?” Hermione scolded when they were safely away from listening ears. “It’s not Blaise’s fault that you just broke up. I’m really sorry about that, and I’m sorry you’re hurting, but being bitter won’t help you.”  
      “Leave off, Hermione,” Harry said. “He’s upset and drunk. Scolding him won’t help.”  
      “I’m not upset about Jared,” Ron protested.  
      “No?” Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”  
      “I’m NOT!” Ron insisted. “I’m mad at myself for acting like an arse toward him, even if I didn’t mean to, but that’s it. The whole unintentional acting-like-an-arse thing is because I’m bloody well in love with bloody Blaise Zabini who just walked out of here with a woman who could pass for a bloody Veela if her hair were bloody blond instead of red. That’s why I’m bloody bitter and upset right now.  
      Harry and Hermione had looked at each other, then swiftly returned to the table to say goodbyes for all three of them.  When Ron swore that many times in a row, it was time to take him home. Even Ron, in his alcohol-soaked brain, knew this. Harry and Hermione took him back to his flat, got him into his pyjamas, and stayed with him through the night. Hermione even spared him the “I knew it would happen” look. At least for now.

 

      Ron didn’t try to date anyone after Jared. It wasn’t fair to the other person, and it wasn’t really fair to himself either. He was in love with Blaise and, apparently, that wasn’t about to change. Ron sometimes wondered if Blaise’s constant presence in the shop had really hindered his attempts to suppress his feelings for him, or if he’d been a lost cause anyway. Probably the latter. But Ron, despite himself, was glad for those times that Blaise came by. At least he’d never doubted that Blaise valued his friendship, even if he wasn’t interested in more, and even if it had made getting over him impossible. It was nice to have those minutes in the shop where he could try to forget all the reasons he shouldn’t be close to Blaise and just chat with him. Especially as Blaise always sat with the other Slytherins halfway across the table from him at pub night. And always left with _anyone_ but Ron.  
      His continued muttering and petty comments to himself and glares at the people Blaise left with had eventually ensured that all of their friends had figured out Ron’s feelings for Blaise. None of them ever said anything to him about it, except for Luna, who when she realised it, which hadn’t taken very long, had told him in her dreamy way that they were going to be a lovely couple when they got together. That really hadn’t helped Ron’s mood at the time. But she was Luna. She was just like that.  
      For every person Blaise left with, Ron always found something to compare to himself, always petulantly concluding that that person didn’t measure up. But on the occasions when Blaise didn’t leave with anyone, Ron would wonder what the person or people who’d tried and failed that night lacked. Most of the people who tried to chat up Blaise were at least moderately attractive, which, with a one-night hook-up, seemed to be the most important factor. Some of the ones Blaise had turned down had been down-right gorgeous. Ron always left those pub nights with the feeling that if _that_ person wasn’t good enough _he_ certainly wasn’t. He’d been right from the beginning that he had no chance. Not even at a one-night hook-up.

 

      He’d gone around and around all of this so many times in the months since he and Jared had broken up that when Pansy had broken the silence and asked him why he didn’t do anything about his feelings for Blaise, he’d been too worn out to answer any way but honestly. As far as he was concerned, the fact that Blaise now seemed to want to date him at all was a bloody miracle. So after all this, Ron wasn’t about to risk what he had by asking Blaise about the clothes issue. He’d just have to grin and bear it. As best he could. He really wasn’t good at pretending feelings he didn’t feel. This was all going to blow up eventually. He just hoped it was later rather than sooner.

 

*          *          *

 

      “Hey, Knight.”  
      Ron’s eyeroll and muttered, “I have a name, you could use it,” were pretty much a reflex at this point. He looked at Blaise across the table. “Yes?”  
      Blaise was still looking at his menu, even though they’d already ordered. They were in a Muggle hamburger place, not far from where he and Hermione had had lunch that afternoon. The food was supposed to be pretty good. He hoped it got here soon.  
      “Why weren’t you in the shop yesterday?” Blaise asked, still casually examining all the strange Muggle dishes for sale. “I went there to ask you about rescheduling today, but you weren’t there. You’re usually working out front then.”  
      Ron was caught off-guard. Although Blaise’s tone was only lightly curious, Ron still felt like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. With his mother, that was a scary prospect. He floundered for an answer that wasn’t “I ducked out so you wouldn’t see me in my work clothes.” Eventually he remembered what he’d said to George in the first place. Mentally slapping himself for his stupidity, he said, “I wasn’t feeling well so George covered for me. Sorry I missed you.”  
      Blaise dropped the menu, concern colouring his features. “Are you all right?”  
      “I’m fine now,” Ron assured him. “It was nothing some Pepperup couldn’t cure.”  
      “You wouldn’t usually leave work for something so simple,” Blaise said tentatively.  
      “Really, it’s nothing,” Ron said. “I’m fine.” He barely refrained from laughing scathingly at himself. He was at this moment so very uncomfortable, having been wearing these clothes almost non-stop all day, except for lunch with Hermione, that he felt like if he didn’t get out of them soon he might scream.  
      “If you’re sure…” Blaise trailed off, looking sceptical.  
      “I’m sure,” Ron said.  
      They focused mostly on their meal, without saying anything that required much attention. Ron was trying to eat as quickly as possible, because the sooner they finished, the sooner they could leave, and the sooner he could take off these stupid clothes. Blaise looked like he was thinking something over, though he gave no indication of what it was.  
      They were close to finishing their food and neither one had said or asked anything about inviting the other back with him. Ron wondered if Blaise just didn’t like to be the one doing the asking. Actually, now that he thought about it, Blaise was usually the one who was asked, rather than the one doing the asking, with all those people he took home from the pub. Maybe Blaise just wasn’t used to asking. Okay, Ron could handle this. After the check was paid, and before Blaise could start to leave, he asked, “Do you want to come back to my flat?” He didn’t bother with the chess excuse this time.  
      Blaise blinked for a second, then said, “Are you sure? You weren’t feeling well--”  
      “ _Yesterday!_ ” Ron said insistently. “I told you, I’m fine.”  
      “All right,” Blaise said. “Then yes, I do.”

 

      As soon as he’d locked the door, Ron started to tug his shirt out of his trousers. Blaise placed a hand over his and stilled his movements. Ron looked at him. Blaise swallowed. “Will you let me do it?” he asked.  
      There was a gleam in his eye that Ron couldn’t quite describe, and he remembered Blaise’s request from two nights ago. So he bit back his jittery need to be out of the damn clothes _right this instant_ and nodded.  
      A slight smile lifted the corner of Blaise’s mouth for a moment. He pulled Ron’s shirt from his trousers and up over his head, skimming his hands along the bare skin of Ron’s sides as he went. Ron groaned. Blaise’s touch soothed his jangled nerves somewhat, and excitement drowned out a portion of his remaining psychological discomfort. Unfortunately, it also increased his physical discomfort. Damn, _why_ did anyone ever think that tights trousers on men was a good idea? _Take them off me, take them off me, take them off me…,_ he chanted in his head. Luckily, Blaise did just that. He reached for the buttons on Ron’s trousers and unfastened them, then, with some difficulty, Ron could tell, pulled them down, taking his underpants with them. When he reached Ron’s feet, Ron lifted first one foot, then the other, and Blaise pulled everything off. Ron kicked it away. When Blaise stood back up, Ron was completely naked and feeling so very relieved. Blaise swallowed again as he looked Ron all over. Ron felt himself blush slightly at the intensity of his gaze. He reached toward Ron’s shoulders, but hesitated before he touched them.  
      “May I touch you?” he asked.  
      “Of course,” Ron said.  
      Blaise placed his hands on Ron’s shoulders, then ran them lightly down his sides, and back up his front. His thumb brushed lightly over one nipple. Ron groaned at the sensation. Blaise’s hands paused at Ron’s reaction, then moved until they hovered over his nipples.  
      “Do you like having your nipples touched?” Blaise asked. Ron nodded. “May I touch them?” Ron nodded again, eyes falling shut in anticipation.  
      Blaise pressed his thumbs over Ron’s nipples and rubbed them, making small, circular motions. Ron groaned again. Then he spent a few moments lightly pinching and plucking at them. Ron sensed a closeness to his face and opened his eyes to find Blaise’s face barely a breath away.  
      “May I kiss you?”  
      Ron moaned and closed the distance between them himself, wrapping his arms around Blaise in the process. Somehow, Blaise managed to get his hands out from in between them, and wrapped his arms around Ron in return, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other stroking his back. Dizzy from the kiss, Ron tugged at the back of Blaise’s shirt, and broke away long enough to gasp, “Off, take it off,” before diving back in. Blaise’s hands left Ron’s back, and when he pulled away to complain about that, he saw that Blaise had unfastened his trousers and pushed them down as far as he could. He stepped back from Ron just long enough to strip himself completely, before circling around Ron, trailing one hand across his belly to his back. He ran his hands all across Ron’s back, down his sides and on down his legs, before moving back up toward Ron’s buttocks. His hands stilled.  
      “May I touch you here?” he asked. His voice was breathless.  
      “Merlin, _yes!_ ” Ron panted. He gasped as Blaise trailed his hands lightly over his butt cheeks, before cupping them firmly and squeezing.  
      “Blaise,” Ron gasped. “Let’s move this to the bed, all right? I don’t think I can keep standing.” His knees were trembling, and he wasn’t sure how much longer they’d hold him up.  
      Blaise stood up and took his hand. He started walking toward Ron’s bedroom, not looking too steady himself. That made Ron smile as he followed him.  
      Blaise gently pushed Ron into a sitting position at the end of the bed, then knelt down in front of him. He trailed a hand up Ron’s leg again toward his groin, stopping short before touching his testicles.  
      “May I--”  
      Ron reached down, cupped Blaise’s chin, and tilted his face up towards him, interrupting him before he could finish the question. “Blaise,” he said, “unless I shout ‘no, stop, don’t do that,’ you can assume that I’m perfectly fine with you doing whatever it is you want to do. In fact, you can assume that I’ll be bloody thrilled to have you do it. You don’t have to ask every time.”  
      Blaise searched his eyes for a moment. Then his face split into a grin, and a teasing glimmer entered his eyes. Ron grinned broadly in return. He’d sorely missed that teasing grin.  
      “As you wish, Your Most Honourable Sir Knight, Sir,” Blaise said.  
      Ron would have retorted, but just at that moment Blaise took his testicles in one hand and rolled them, stroking his penis firmly with the other. Ron groaned instead and fell back against the bed. A warm, wet tongue joined the hand at his erection, stroking up the underside, and Ron yelped in surprise and shot back up into a sitting position. He stared down as Blaise closed his mouth over the head and sucked, lightly at first, then harder, before taking as much as he could into his mouth, still using his hand to cover the difference.  
      “Ooooohhhhhhh,” Ron breathed. Blaise was really _good_ at this. He pushed away the pinprick of jealousy that accompanied the thought, and focused on the incredibly arousing sight before him.  
      It didn’t take long before he was on the edge, and he pushed at Blaise’s shoulder to warn him. Blaise pulled back and stroked Ron to completion. Ron came within seconds.  
      When his high had faded and he’d relaxed a bit, he reached out to Blaise, who was now standing in front of him, and pulled him down onto the bed. He turned Blaise onto his back, then climbed on top of him. Blaise blinked up at him in surprise.  
      “So, you don’t swallow either?” Ron asked.  
      Blaise looked a bit abashed. “No. I never do. It’s nothing personal, I just can’t stand it.”  
      “Yeah, I completely understand,” Ron said airily. “I tried to swallow once. Choked on it. Never doing that again.”  
      Blaise immediately choked on a laugh. Ron grinned. He loved making Blaise laugh. He slipped a hand down to Blaise’s groin and wrapped it around his penis. This time Blaise choked on a yelp.  
      “So you won’t be offended when I don’t swallow,” Ron stated, stroking up and down in a leisurely manner.  
      “No,” Blaise gasped. “Not offended at all.”  
      “Good,” Ron said. He shifted downward and closed his mouth around Blaise’s erection.  
      Ron had been told on more than one occasion that he had a big mouth. In this instance, he figured that that was a good thing. When he’d taken in as much of Blaise as he could, he sucked harshly, moving his tongue over the vein on the underside, then began moving his mouth up and down. It had been a while since he’d done this, but the noises Blaise was making assured him that he was doing the job just fine. Within only a few minutes, Blaise tugged at his hair. Ron got the message and pulled off, stroking Blaise through to the end, watching his expression as he came. When Blaise started to relax, Ron leaned over and kissed him. Blaise was truly beautiful. Not just his looks. All of him. And Ron loved him so much. His kiss turned a little desperate at the thought. He didn’t want to lose this. He really didn’t. He pushed the thought aside and pulled Blaise up from the bed.  
      “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go take showers.”  
      Blaise looked unsure again.  
      “You can also assume that I want you to stay,” Ron murmured, blushing and looking away, in case he’d misread Blaise’s hesitation.  
      “Oh,” Blaise said. He sounded happy. “Okay, then.”  
      They each took a shower and settled into Ron’s bed. Blaise, without asking this time, put an arm around Ron. Ron curled himself into Blaise’s chest the way he’d done two nights ago. So he liked to be the little spoon. So sue him. Jared had expected him to want to be the big spoon because he was the big, brave, strong, protective Gryffindor. And he _was_ all of those things. But he’d found that in situations of vulnerability and intimacy, he wanted to feel protected, cared for, cherished. It was nice while he and Blaise were cuddled together in bed to pretend that this was based on more than Ron’s suddenly wearing sexy clothing.  
      He felt Blaise’s breathing even out under him within a few minutes and looked up to see that he had fallen asleep. Ron lay back down and closed his eyes sleepily. But he was just in that state of exhaustion when random thoughts run across the brain, and he suddenly wondered why Blaise seemed so uncertain when they were physically intimate. He blinked his eyes open again at the thought, feeling abruptly awake. Now that his brain was no longer lust-fogged, it seemed kind of strange. Blaise always seemed so sure of himself. He also had more experience, or at least more recent and more varied experience, than Ron in the bedroom. So why did someone who was both generally confident and specifically experienced become so uncertain during physical intimacy? Ron yawned. It was a puzzle all right. Blaise seemed to be a whole bunch of puzzles to Ron right now. He closed his eyes again. _But tonight was fun,_ he thought. _Not just sexually pleasurable, really fun. Laughing and joking like we used to before. It felt really natural._ He felt sad and guilty, suddenly. _And it’s my fault that it hasn’t been like that until now. I get so insecure and uncomfortable in those clothes that I can’t act naturally. I thought I was doing fairly well at pushing through it, but I was so very different tonight. I wonder if Blaise has noticed. I hope not._ He pressed his lips to Blaise’s skin. _Sorry, Blaise._

 

      Ron was off the next day, so he spent most of the day at home, enjoying being able to wear whatever he wanted. Blaise came by in the early evening and they went out to eat before heading off to pub night, where they sat at opposite sides of the table, per the set-up of pub night. Ron kept sneaking looks at Blaise over his butterbeer. Once or twice he thought he saw Blaise direct a glare at someone, but he couldn’t be sure with the lighting. Mostly, he kept noticing Blaise looking at him in between talking with his friends. It made Ron feel slightly better about sitting here in these bloody torture devices, which had gotten more than a few comments from his friends, including a hissed “You shouldn’t do this to yourself, Ron” from Hermione. At least he knew he wasn’t torturing himself in vain. Blaise wouldn’t be going home with anyone else that night.  
      The next morning Ron saw Blaise outside the shop door. He quickly ducked down behind the counter, pulled off his work robes, and stood back up, dressed in the date clothes, by the time Blaise pushed the door open. He’d been wearing them all morning, as he had two days ago, just in case Blaise came. He was bloody uncomfortable, as usual, and had been all morning, but as Blaise came to a stop for a second and looked him up and down, as far as he could with the counter between them, Ron felt glad. He was safe for now.  
      “Hey, Knight,” Blaise said eventually, apparently choosing not to ask why he was dressed like this at work.  
      Ron rolled his eyes and muttered, “Seriously, I have a name,” under his breath, as usual, before saying, “Hi, Blaise.”  
      “I was passing by and thought I’d stop in to see what you have in the way of new products,” Blaise explained with a quirk of his lips.  
      “I see,” Ron said. “Let me show you what’s new on the shelves right now. There’s also some products in the testing stages.” He came out from behind the counter. At that moment, a regular customer pushed open the door and came inside. She stopped short at the sight of Ron and gave him a clearly interested once-over. Ron blushed, uncomfortable with the image he was currently presenting in this, his workplace, as well as for the usual reasons, but Blaise was still there, so there was nothing he could do about it. Blaise, however, turned to the customer and glared. The woman looked from Ron to Blaise and raised her hands in defeat.  
      “Hey, I get the picture,” she said. “I’m here for my order, Mr. Weasley. It’s already paid for, so if you could just get it for me, I’ll be on my way.”  
      “Oh, right. Yes, certainly,” Ron stammered, still blushing. He ducked back behind the counter and came up with the right package. The woman took it.  
      “I wish you luck with him,” she said as she left, to either or both of them, Ron wasn’t sure. Suddenly despite his discomfort, Ron felt glad.

 

      Ron was now wearing the date clothes under his work robes every day, just to be on the safe side, but it was taking a toll on him. He was now spending at least half his waking hours wearing clothing that pinched, squeezed, itched, or all of them together, and that also turned his mind into a nervous wreck. He was feeling the effects of not spending enough time out of them to recover his psychological stability. The result was that, unfortunately, he was now utterly uncomfortable at work, jittery, nervous, and making mistakes that he hadn’t made since his first few weeks at the shop. What was worse, he was pretty sure at least some of the regulars could tell. He’d lost track of how many times he’d been asked if he was all right over the last several days. George could certainly tell, and was making sure to remind him at least once a day that he was being an idiot. He tried to ignore the progression of George’s reminder from mocking to worried as the days passed.  
      At their next pub night Luna drifted over to him at one point and said in a tone of utter conviction, “You should stop wearing those clothes, Ronald. He loves you for your heart, not your wrapping paper.” Then she drifted back over to her seat, leaving him stunned speechless behind her. He hadn’t even said anything to her about it! But she was Luna, wasn’t she? She was just like that, always had been. Ron laughed a little to himself. How long would it take for bloody all of his friends to know that there was something wrong with him? He wondered if it would take more or less time than it had taken for them all to know that he was in love with Blaise in the first place.  
      There was a slight urgency in his invitation to Blaise to come back to his place that night. It wasn’t just that he wanted to go to bed with him. He felt the need to just _be_ with Blaise, spend time in his company, in the only way he could without having to wear these bloody things, the only way he could feel relaxed and like himself around him.

 

      He was on his way to buy himself some lunch a couple of days later when he saw Blaise across the street from him. He cursed and ducked into the nearest shop. He’d been so glad to get out of the stupid clothes he’d been wearing that morning before he left for lunch. Now he wished he’d kept them on. He was so stupid! Why hadn’t he considered the possibility of meeting Blaise by accident on the street? It wasn’t like it had never happened before. Blaise spent a fair amount of his time in the area of Diagon Alley where the shop was. What if he’d come into the shop today just when Ron had changed back to his normal clothes, or had been outside when he’d left? _Damn it._ There was only one thing he could do. He’d have to wear them whenever he left the house. He shuddered at the very idea. It was stupid, so stupid. Wearing them as much as he already was was killing him, and now he was losing almost all of his breathing room, almost all the time he’d had to relax and recover. This was going to blow up in his face, he just knew it. He wondered if he’d end up in the closed ward at St. Mungo’s by the time this was all over. But he couldn’t let go of it now. It was like an obsession. Somehow, the more he wore them, the more he was convinced that he needed them and would lose Blaise without them. He’d had no hope of Blaise wanting to be with him right from the beginning, so he couldn’t make himself let go of the one hold on hope that he had. He wanted to keep Blaise. In order to keep Blaise, he had to wear these clothes, no matter how much they were hurting him. It was that simple.  
      It was also that painful. He was now always, always uncomfortable, except when he could go home and get out of the damn things. By the time he got to his dates with Blaise, he’d been wearing them all day, and could barely manage to say anything. For four days straight he invited Blaise back to his place a little earlier than the day before, because he couldn’t stand these fucking clothes, and he couldn’t stand how he felt so uncomfortable around Blaise when he wore them. Under any other circumstances, his dates with Blaise would be the highlight of his days. He hated that he couldn’t manage to talk during them in any way resembling himself anymore. He hated that he couldn’t wait for them to end. Ron missed talking to Blaise, missed it like crazy, he’d missed it ever since he’d first pulled back from the chess games. He wondered what Blaise thought about his behaviour, which definitely couldn’t be escaping his notice now, and wondered still more why Blaise never said anything about it. On the fourth day he practically ripped the clothes off his body the moment they got in the door, and then just closed his eyes and stood there _breathing_ while he tried to let go of all the negative thoughts and memories that had attacked him that day.  
      “What’s wrong?” Blaise demanded, his tone clearly alarmed.  
      Ron kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, feeling a wave of dizziness passing over him. When he felt somewhat settled he opened his eyes, and really registered the concern radiating from Blaise-- enough that he’d finally said something. _Damn it,_ Ron thought. _How am I going to explain this?_ He smiled. Or tried to, anyway. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I’m fine.” It wasn’t really a lie. He _was_ fine. _Now.  
      _“You’re _not_ fine,” Blaise argued, but then he stopped himself. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and looked back at Ron. His eyes were sad. “I can’t, nor would I try to, force you to talk to me,” he said softly. “But I wish you would.”  
      His words made Ron’s heart ache. Even if Blaise’s attraction to him was only a result of what he was wearing, Ron knew that Blaise really valued him as a friend, and was clearly concerned about him. He was being really selfish, wasn’t he? He’d never wanted Blaise to be hurt, but he’d still selfishly backed out of their friendship, and was now selfishly clinging to him, while acting really strange and not telling him why. He had once believed that he could tell Blaise anything. Now look at them. Ron didn’t know what to do.  
      “I’m sorry,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “I’m just so tired. I… Can we… Would you mind if we just sleep tonight?” he finished, his voice small.  
      For a moment hurt and disappointment crossed Blaise’s face, but he nodded. He took Ron’s hand and walked to the bedroom. Ron followed. Blaise gently guided Ron into bed and pulled the covers up over him, then stripped down to his underwear and climbed in beside him. He wrapped one arm around Ron’s body and stroked his hair with the other. _Like soothing a frightened child after a nightmare,_ Ron thought bitterly, but it felt too good for him to protest. He closed his eyes and fell asleep within minutes.

 

      Ron could see Harry’s surprise as plain as the sunrise when he showed up for lunch at The Leaky Cauldron the next day wearing the kind of clothes that belonged in a dance club. But he didn’t comment as he and Ron sat down and ordered their food.  
      “So,” Harry said, as they waited for their food to come, “between my extra Auror training and your work schedule, I haven’t seen you outside of pub night since you started dating Blaise. It’s been, what, nearly three weeks? How are things going with him?”  
      “Things are going fine,” Ron said, shrugging his shoulders. He could feel how tense they were as he dropped them back down.  
      Harry just looked at Ron without saying anything. He didn’t need to. This was Harry, after all. Just like Hermione, he knew Ron, had known him since they were eleven, and had probably known the moment Ron had walked in that he wasn’t okay. Somehow that look was the last straw. Ron broke.  
      “Bloody hell, Harry, I can’t stand these bloody clothes anymore,” he burst out. “It was bad enough when it was just for the dates, even worse when it was every day at work. But now I’m wearing them every bloody second of the day when I’m not at home, and I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe in these clothes. And it’s not just how fucking uncomfortable they are, why anyone would want to wear these torture devices is beyond me, they cut into literally _everywhere,_ and I feel like my lungs are being squeezed, and my circulation is being cut off, but I haven’t worn clothes this small on me since I started being able to afford to buy my own clothes and every time I put these things on I feel like I’m right back to being the jealous insecure me who turned on you during the Triwizard Tournament and walked out of that tent, the me who always felt like the least important of all my siblings and the least important of my friends. I hate this, I bloody hate this!” He was practically hyperventilating by the time he was done.  
      Harry seemed stunned. Ron didn’t usually talk about this kind of thing, so Harry was probably surprised at the sudden outpouring. Then Ron realised what he’d said about feeling like the least important, and mentally slapped himself. There was a _reason_ he didn’t usually talk about this. He was about to apologise when Harry said, “I get it, the clothes thing. For me it’s the other way, about clothes that are too big, and it’s not the same reaction, but I get it.” He seemed supremely uncomfortable. He didn’t usually talk about this kind of thing either, and he looked about as awkward as he must have felt, but he was doing it anyway. Ron felt a rush of gratitude to his friend. He was also really curious, because Harry usually just brushed over his life before Hogwarts and during the summers, but Ron knew where the too-big clothes came from, so he knew what Harry had to be talking about. “It doesn’t send me spiralling backwards, the way you said these clothes do to you. I have other triggers that do that. But I don’t like to wear clothes that are too big,” Harry went on. “It reminds me of living with the Dursleys and of being completely unwanted by the only family I had. It reminds me of being cut off from everyone I cared about every summer once I’d started at Hogwarts.” He swallowed. “There are a lot of bad memories connected to those feelings.”  
      “Bars on your windows,” Ron murmured, looking at his friend. He was so used to feeling inferior to Harry that sometimes he forgot just how much better he had it when they were kids. Even when he’d felt like the least important of everyone, he’d still known that his family loved him and wanted him. However much he’d doubted anyone else’s ability to want him, he’d known that his family did. Harry had grown up being told how worthless he was. And then Harry, who’d never had a friend before, had chosen Ron all by himself. It was a humbling thought.  
      Harry smiled. “Yeah, although that also reminds me of Ron Weasley and the Dynamite Twins to the Rescue, so it’s not entirely bad,” he teased. Ron blushed and ducked his head. “The thing is, though, that I didn’t have to keep wearing those clothes,” Harry went on. “The day Hagrid took me to Gringotts and I found out I had money, I could have bought myself some clothes that fit, instead of wearing Uncle Vernon’s old socks with my robes, and Dudley’s old pyjamas to sleep. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything about it. It just didn’t occur to me that I needed to, or that I could.”  
      “So what happened?” Ron asked tentatively. “You started wearing clothes that fit during our repeat seventh year, right?”  
      “Yeah,” Harry said. A small smile touched his lips as he remembered. “What happened was Draco.”  
      “Malfoy?” Ron repeated, surprised for a moment, but then again, not really. After all, the ferret really did love Harry.  
      “Yeah,” Harry repeated. “One weekend near the beginning of the year, when we were still trying to work things out, we went into a clothes shop in Hogsmeade because Draco said he needed something. He asked if there was anything I wanted while we were there. I shrugged and said that I didn’t need any more clothing. He gave me that look that he does, you know, as if I’d just flown in from another planet, and asked why I insisted on dressing like a house-elf when I have both the Potter and Black family fortunes and could afford a whole new wardrobe without it troubling me.” Harry shot Ron an apologetic look, since money had always been a sensitive point for him. Ron just waved a hand at him to continue. “Anyway, so I said that I’d always worn Dudley’s hand-me-downs and they were still usable, so I didn’t need new clothes. I think at first he thought I was being sarcastic. When he realised I meant it he said, in these exact words, ‘Potter, _normal_ people whose clothes don’t fit buy clothes that fit. Clothes that fit are not an unnecessary luxury unless you really can’t afford them. And you can. So why are you treating yourself so cheaply?’ And you know, I didn’t even realise that I thought that way. I didn’t even realise I was treating myself so cheaply, like I didn’t deserve clothes that fit. Like I really was just as worthless as they’d always told me. I’d never been grateful for those clothes. I’d hated having to wear them. But suddenly it was staring me in the face that even once I’d had the chance to buy clothes for myself, I was still wearing the clothes I hated. And how that wasn’t a sign of a proper value for oneself. I tried to fudge my way around answering, but Draco wouldn’t let it go. So it just ended up being this whole conversation about my life with the Dursleys, which I’d never really told you guys about in detail. I mostly preferred to forget about them when I was with you.” He shrugged. “Still do. And at the end of it, he said, ‘You’re a bloody idiot, Potter, if after everything you’ve done and been through, you believe a word of what those excuses for human beings told you. You’ve always been worth more than they were combined. And you need some new clothes. So we are going to stay in this shop until you have at least a week’s worth of clothing that fits you properly.’ Which, at that point, was the nicest thing Draco Malfoy had ever said to me. By the end of that trip we were definitely friends. And I think, looking back, that that’s when I started to fall in love with him.”  
      Ron thought about Blaise telling him that he’d never been the least of his friends, and he thought he knew exactly why Harry had started to fall for the git.  
      “He made me understand that I’m worth more than what the Dursleys had tried to make me think I was,” Harry continued. “I know that you guys loved me, but while I still had to go back to them every summer it was easy to doubt that I was really loved, you know?”  
      Ron nodded. He knew all too well.  
      “I’ve mostly gotten over it by now,” Harry said. “Draco’s helped a lot. But an internalised lack of self-worth is hard to shake entirely. So wearing things that are too big now bothers me, not just because it reminds me of living with the Dursleys, but also because it reminds me of the fact that I’d unconsciously accepted their view of my worth.”  
      “You really do get it,” Ron said.  
      Harry nodded. “Yeah. And so do you.” He was quiet for a minute. “But Ron, if it hurts you so much to wear those new clothes, then why are you wearing them?” he finally asked.  
      “Because I’m afraid that if I don’t, Blaise won’t want me anymore,” Ron said quietly, voice a little broken.  
      “What?” Harry looked flabbergasted. “Why would you think that? That’s…”  
      “The stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?” Ron suggested bitterly.  
      “Well, pretty much,” Harry said apologetically.  
      “George, Ginny, Hermione, and Luna have all said basically the same thing,” Ron replied. “But he never looked at me like that, Harry, not once, as he left the pub with one person after another, not even on the nights when no one caught his fancy, and before that, not for all the months that we played chess together. He never once looked at me as anything other than a friend. Not until I came to pub night in these clothes for the first time. Then he kept looking at me all night long.” Ron dropped his head into his hands. “What am I going to do? I can barely stand talking to him on our dates because I’m too uncomfortable, but I miss talking to him. And I found out last night that I’m hurting him too. I can’t keep going on like this forever. I need to figure out what to do, but I can’t bloody think when I’m like this, and now I’m _always_ like this. And I’m terrified that if I do anything, I’ll lose him. I don’t want to lose him, Harry. But if things keep going the way they are, I’m going to lose him anyway. I just don’t know what to _do._ ”  
      Harry looked at him sadly. “I’m so sorry, mate. I wish there were something I could say or do to help you. But I just don’t know.”  
      “It’s okay, Harry,” Ron said, attempting a smile. “I appreciate the thought, anyway.” But he turned away to dry his eyes where he hoped Harry wouldn’t notice. Of course he _did_ , because he was Ron’s best mate and he knew him. “Sorry. Bloody wind blowing stuff in my eyes.” _As if that excuse would fool anyone._

 

      When Ron got back to his flat that evening, Blaise was outside the door. He looked grave.  
      “Hey,” Ron said nervously. “What’s up?”  
      “I need to talk to you,” Blaise answered.  
      Ron panicked. _Oh no. Nothing good ever comes after those words._ What was going on? Was this about yesterday? Or had Blaise gotten tired of his weird behaviour and was going to break up with him now?  
      Trying his best not to let his thoughts show on his face, he said, “Sure, come on in.” He unlocked the door and let Blaise walk in ahead of him. Once he’d locked the door he turned instinctively toward his bedroom to change into his normal clothes, as he’d done the last few days as soon as he got home from work, only to realise, with a sudden wave of nausea, that he couldn’t. Blaise was here right now. _Bloody hell, I almost did the one thing that would have lost me him right now._ He _couldn’t_ change. He jerked to a stop before actually taking the first step, and instead turned to face Blaise, his body trembling.  
      Blaise’s eyes flicked from him to the door of his bedroom before he faced Ron, gestured at him, and asked, “Why the bloody hell do you think you need to wear these clothes for me to be interested in you?”  
      Ron’s breath caught in his throat and he choked. Not only was the question itself completely unexpected, but the language showed that Blaise was angry. And Ron didn’t have the brainpower left to figure out why.  
      “What do you mean?” he asked weakly.  
      Blaise’s expression went from stony to completely furious. “Don’t lie to me, Ron Weasley. I heard your conversation with Potter earlier. You know exactly what I mean.”  
      “You heard my…” Ron trailed off. The blood drained from his face and he turned away. He couldn’t face Blaise now. _Oh, fuck._ “How could you have--”  
      “I wanted to talk to you outside of the shop. You mentioned this morning that you’d be meeting Potter for lunch at The Leaky Cauldron, so I went there to see you. I intended to wait until you’d finished lunch, but then I heard you start ranting about how much you hate wearing these clothes. Considering how confused and worried I’ve been trying to figure out what the hell has been wrong with you since we started dating, why you were suddenly so uncomfortable around me, I couldn’t help but listen. Now answer the bloody question!”  
      “If you heard my conversation with Harry, then you know why!” Ron said, voice rising. He was on the defensive now, getting angry himself.  
      “Yes, well, when I heard that you thought so little of me as to believe that what you wear determines my interest in you I stopped being able to hear over the rushing in my ears. So would you please, very kindly, _tell me already why you would think that!_ ”  
      Ron exploded, much as he’d done with Harry earlier. He was so bloody uncomfortable in these clothes, so emotionally worn down between the worry over being seen out of them and the psychological effect that wearing them had on him, and now it looked as though he was going to lose Blaise right now in spite of it all. He was tired and sad and so damn angry that he exploded. “Why? Because you never looked at me! Every single pub night you were going home with someone else every time, and it was never me, and you never looked at me! Ever since the beginning you only ever saw me as a friend. Until I came to pub night wearing those stupid clothes that Malfoy and Parkinson and Hermione and Ginny forced me into, and _then_ you couldn’t bloody keep your eyes off me, could you? _Then_ you looked at me, all right. You even accepted when I asked you out. So what the hell was I supposed to think?” Ron heaved in a huge breath, tears pricking his eyes for the second time that day. _Damn_ it!.  
      “I never looked at you?” Blaise’s voice had changed from angry to shocked and Ron looked up into Blaise’s face to see a completely astonished expression. “I’ve been looking at you for years. Every single person I left the pub with shared at least one physical characteristic with you, so that when I was with them I could pretend that I was with you. If I’d thought that I could have left with the real you, I would have.”  
      “What?” Ron breathed. He couldn’t believe his ears.  
      Blaise continued. “I wanted you when you were in too-short robes, I wanted you when you were wearing those ridiculous velvet things with the frayed cuffs at the Yule Ball, I wanted you when I walked into your shop the first time and you were wearing those hideous magenta robes your brother calls a work uniform, and I wanted you three months ago when you showed up to pub night in borderline oversized sweats and T-shirt. Why on earth would I only want you because of these clothes?”  
      Ron didn’t so much sit as collapse onto the couch, panting. He couldn’t seem to take in what Blaise was saying, and he was suddenly really dizzy and short of breath.  
      “For Merlin’s sake!” Blaise cried. He stormed into Ron’s bedroom and came back with the T-shirt and trousers that Ron had left out on his bed that morning. “Here. Get out of those bloody things. No wonder you looked on the verge of collapse last night.” He turned around.  
      Ron did as he was told automatically, his eyes fixed on Blaise’s back all the while. Even in the midst of this fight he still felt the relief of being out of those torturous excuses for clothes. “I’m done,” he said. Blaise turned back around to face him. Ron drew in a deep, slow breath, trying to steady himself. “But… I don’t… But… But why did you you keep looking at me at pub night when I was wearing those clothes the first time? You’d never looked at me like that before.”  
      “I was jealous.” Blaise said flatly.  
      “I don’t understand.”  
      “I was jealous,” Blaise repeated. “You may not have noticed that practically every eye in the pub was on you that night, male and female, but I did. You were clearly dressed to pull, whether you meant it that way or not, and watching you with Jared had hurt quite enough. I really didn’t want to watch you end up with someone who picked you up in the pub. I went over to you to fend off the competition and to ask you what the bloody hell you were doing dressing like that. The conversation clearly didn’t go as I’d expected,” he added wryly.  
      Ron groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I really don’t understand,” he said weakly.  
      Blaise sighed and sat down next to him. “Okay, clearly all of my Slytherin subtlety has been lost on you. I’m going to do the unheard-of and try some Gryffindor forthrightness.”  
      “Huh?”  
      “I’m going to tell you the whole story, starting all the way back, so that by the time we reach the end of it you will have no doubt that my wanting you is not in the least influenced by what you wear,” Blaise explained.  
      “Oh,” Ron said dumbly.  
      Blaise examined his face. “Are you feeling steadier now? Are you okay to have this conversation?  
      Ron took a few deep breaths. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m all right now.”  
      Blaise snorted, but nodded.  
      “So once upon a time there was a brave Knight who sacrificed himself in a chess game and earned his House fifty points,” he started, with a slight smile.  
      “You’re hilarious,” Ron muttered.  
      “Just trying to lighten the mood,” Blaise shrugged. “But that is the start. I noticed you because you publicly earned fifty points for a well-played game of chess. We didn’t have much to do with each other, but I knew your name from that and I was curious about you because of it. So I… paid attention to you, I guess. Then sometime in fourth year I realised that I was attracted to you. It had happened so naturally that, despite how I was then, it didn’t really occur to me to deny it. I’m not claiming I was in love with you back then. We didn’t know each other, so I couldn’t have been. Anyway I was too busy being a right little pureblood shit to fall for a blood-traitor. But I definitely wanted you. Falling in love with you came later.”  
      “Wait, what?!” Ron exclaimed, interrupting him. “ _What_ did you say came later?”  
      “Oh, haven’t I said?” Blaise turned his head toward Ron and looked him in the eye. “I’m in love with you.”  
      “No,” Ron said, stunned. “No, you hadn’t said.” He wondered if he was going into shock. And now he was even more bloody confused.  
      “Well, that’s the next part of my story. At the inter-House party during our repeated seventh year, we talked for the first time.” Blaise smiled in reminiscence. “You called me not half bad for a Slytherin.” Ron blushed. He’d figured out his low alcohol tolerance problem because of that party. “And we talked several more times as the term went on. By the time we were coming to the end of the school year, I’d fallen in love with you. It wasn’t much of a leap, really. I’d been both curious about you and attracted to you for years. Once old prejudices were out of the way, I wasn’t at all surprised when I realised it had happened.”  
      “You never let on,” Ron said hesitantly. “I had no idea.”  
      “I’m a Slytherin, Ron,” Blaise said. Ron blinked. Had Blaise just called him ‘Ron?’ “I know how to put up a front. I’ve been doing it my whole life. We weren’t more than friendly acquaintances at that point. Displaying my feelings would have been counterproductive.” He hesitated. “Truthfully, that’s not all it was.” He put his feet up on the couch, pulled his knees to his chest, and rested his chin on them. “You’re not the only one in the world with insecurities, you know,” he went on, his voice quieter. “The way my mother was, I’d never had a positive example of a good, healthy relationship. I was terrified that I’d be incapable of maintaining one. At that time I didn’t want to try for a romantic relationship with you. What I did want was to try to build a friendship with you. I knew I could maintain those. I’d hoped to stay in contact with you through pub nights, but the way it ended up being set up meant that we were never near each other, so we never spoke. So after a few weeks I invited you to play chess.” His voice grew stronger again and he smiled. “It worked too. You play brilliantly, so it was great all by itself, but you actually talked to me. We had a good friendship going. Somewhere along the way I found that my relationship anxiety had lessened. The more time we spent together, the deeper in love with you I fell, and I found myself thinking that I would probably be able to have a relationship without ruining it, if it was with you.”  
      “But you didn’t do anything,” Ron protested. “We just kept on going as usual and--”  
      “Again, I’m a Slytherin,” Blaise interrupted. “I tend to exercise caution when in pursuit of things that are important to me. I knew that you thought I was good-looking. Your expressions are not subtle.” He gave Ron an amused look, and Ron blushed again. “But finding someone attractive doesn’t mean you actually want to sleep with them, nor does it mean that you want to have a relationship with them. I valued your company and your friendship too highly to risk losing it by making a move on you with no more indication of interest than shallow physical attraction. And actually, toward the end, I thought you were showing some amount of reciprocal interest, and I was still debating whether what I thought I saw was enough to take that risk, when you started acting strangely and then announced that you were going out with Jared. It…” He swallowed hard. “It hurt like a physical wound to hear that. And you seemed so happy that night. I sat there wishing I could go back in time a few weeks and tell myself to just take the risk and ask you out. But it was too late. So when that man started walking toward me with obvious ‘I’m trying to pick you up’ vibes coming off him, my first instinct was to tell him to bugger off because I really wasn’t in the mood to be chatted up. And then I saw his eyes. They were blue, like yours. I was feeling hurt and depressed enough that I made the impulsive decision to go home with him and let myself get lost in pretend. Which I continued to do. Being surrounded by our friends, all divided into happy couples, with you halfway across the table, first happy with Jared, then seeming to be annoyed with me every time, always made me feel so sad and lonely that when someone with the right characteristics chatted me up, I took comfort in fantasy. When there wasn’t someone like that, I went home alone. Usually drunk. Pathetic, I know.”  
      Blaise went quiet for a few minutes. Ron’s heart was pounding. He remembered sitting at pub night after pub night, childishly muttering about how unfavorably each of Blaise’s conquests compared to him. _Each and every one._ They’d all shared some characteristic with him: build, freckles, blue eyes, red hair, angle of his smile; he’d been commenting on it all along, yet somehow he’d missed the significance. The numb disbelief was dissipating and reality was starting to sink in. Blaise had said that he wanted him. Blaise had said that he _loved_ him.  
      “You should have said something. Or done something,” he murmured.  
      Blaise snorted. “You were in a relationship,” he said. “A decent human being does not interfere in others’ relationships. But even without that code, I have too much respect for relationships and the people who can make them work to deliberately try to break one up. Even if it was killing me not to.”  
      “Then you had a higher respect for my relationship with Jared than I did,” Ron admitted ruefully. He put a hand on Blaise’s arm. “You were right,” he said. “I was interested in you then. When I realised it myself, I spent a pretty depressing afternoon telling myself all the reasons why you were out of my league and would never want me.” Blaise turned his head and looked at him in surprise. “At the end of it, I decided that the best thing I could do was try to suppress my feelings for you by pulling back from our friendship. So when Jared asked me out, I said yes mostly because I was trying to get over you. The night I announced it and then I watched you leave with someone from the pub that first time, I already knew it wasn’t going to work. I was so bloody jealous watching you with that man. But it just convinced me that I was right and had no chance with you. He was almost as gorgeous as you are, seriously. And I thought that if you’d been interested in me at all, you’d have done something about it-- but for all those months, over a year, since we’d started playing chess, you never made a move. So even though I knew better, I tried with Jared anyway. And it didn’t work. So after some unnecessarily hurt feelings, and a whole lot of wasted time, we broke up. I still feel guilty when I think about it. It wasn’t fair to him.” He paused for a moment. “It wasn’t fair to you either.”  
      “So that was the reason,” Blaise said. “All I knew was that suddenly you were always busy with Jared and never accepted my invitations anymore. I’ll admit, having you pull away like that made everything worse. I’d lost my chance at more because I’d been afraid to lose the friendship we had, and then I lost that too. In order not to lose it completely, I came to the shop more often.” He smiled wistfully. “You know, to begin with I was only really coming in to talk to you. I could have sent an owl about confirmations and cancellations, but I wanted to see you more, so I came in person.”  
      “But why didn’t you say anything after Jared and I broke up?” Ron asked.  
      “The first pub night after you two broke up, you seemed heartbroken and bitter,” Blaise said. “You got yourself so drunk that Potter and Granger had to take you home. And you kept muttering and glaring in my direction. That was pretty disheartening. When I heard that you’d broken up, I have to admit I was selfishly happy. I thought that maybe, after you’d gotten over it, we could play chess and talk again the way we had before, and maybe, _maybe,_ if I went about it the right way, it could eventually develop into more. I wasn’t banking on it, but I thought I’d at least try.  But you kept glaring and muttering every pub night. Also every time I called you by your nickname, which seemed like a rejection of our previous closeness. I wasn’t sure what to make of it; you always seemed happy enough to see me when I came to the shop. I couldn’t figure out what you were thinking, but you made no move to restart things with us, and I found myself too unsure of what to do to try to make a move myself. Hell for a chess player, huh?” he half-joked.  
      It was dawning on Ron that Blaise wasn’t really all that sure of himself after all. He second-guessed and overthought and doubted, just the same as Ron did. He was just better at hiding it.  
      “So there I was stuck in this limbo of uncertainty when all of a sudden, one pub night, you suddenly suggested that I take you home, and when I refused on purely moral grounds, you then suggested a date. I had no idea what to make of that. You’d never shown any interest in me before, so it was entirely possible that it was just the alcohol talking, but I couldn’t let go of the chance that you meant it. I tried as hard as I could to make sure my letter wouldn’t put pressure on you if you hadn’t meant it while still making sure you knew I was serious when I said yes. Let me tell you, that was the most awkward letter I have ever written.” Blaise got up from the couch and started pacing. “Even after you’d said you meant it, though, I still didn’t know if the date was meant as an actual date with a view toward a relationship, or just as a precursor to a one night stand. I went to the date determined not to make a move toward sex myself, so I could gauge your intentions. But you acted so uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have tried anyway. The thought occurred to me that despite my best efforts, you’d felt pressured after all, and were only there out of obligation. Except you asked me out again. But on each date you acted so uncomfortable, and I couldn’t figure out why. You’d never been uncomfortable around me before, even when I thought you were angry or annoyed with me. So many explanations crossed my mind, one of which was that you’d been abused by Jared, or by someone since him that I didn’t know about, so my shift from friend to potential sexual or romantic partner made you nervous. I figured that if this were the case, you’d be even more uncomfortable if we were intimate, so I made no move, but then you did, and I’ll admit I was surprised. I was so concerned the entire time about accidentally forcing you to do something you weren’t comfortable with.” Suddenly, Blaise’s constant asking for permission made sense. Ron tried to speak, but Blaise was on a roll now. “But all of a sudden your discomfort seemed to disappear while we were intimate, the opposite of what I’d expected based on my thoughts. The same thing happened the next time. So I thought, ‘okay, maybe it isn’t me that’s making him uncomfortable. Or maybe it _is,_ just not for that reason. Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen with me alone in public. Maybe he’s just nervous on dates. Maybe he really is only interested in the physical side of things.’ That last thought received a boost the last few days as you kept cutting our dates shorter and inviting me back here earlier. But none of those explanations really made sense, or agreed with what I know about you. I’ve been so confused and concerned over all of this ever since we started dating. And you just kept getting more and more uncomfortable. I kept thinking ‘There’s no point in asking him; if he wanted to tell me, he would,’ and I meant to leave you alone about it. But then last night…” He wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered. “Last night you looked like you were on the verge of a panic attack or like you might collapse at any second. You frightened me out of my mind. I nearly broke and demanded answers from you right then. But you were clearly off-balance and vulnerable. I decided to wait until today. So I went to find you at lunchtime and overheard your conversation with Potter.” He sat back down next to Ron. “I know my coming here tonight demanding answers went directly against what I said last night about not forcing you to talk to me. But I really reached my breaking point this time. When I heard what you said about being afraid that I wouldn’t want you if you weren’t wearing those clothes, on the one hand I wanted to go over to you right then and tell you that you were wrong. I was also really relieved, because the reason for your behaviour could have been so much worse. But on the other hand, I was angry and hurt that you’d think that badly of me, and that last reaction sort of took over my brain. I’m sorry, by the way, for starting this whole thing angrily, and while you were still wearing clothing that would keep you off-balance. Then again, if I’d asked you to change before we started talking, you probably would have panicked anyway, right?” Ron nodded. He would have.  
      Blaise let out a big breath. “So here we are back at the present,” he finished airily. “Have I convinced you yet?”  
      “Yeah, you’ve made a pretty convincing argument,” Ron said.  
      “The fact is, I didn’t connect the start of our going out with your suddenly wearing tight, revealing clothes,” Blaise said, serious again.  
      “Not at all?” Ron asked. “They did happen at the same time.”  
      “Yes, I knew that they happened at the same time, and I thought it was odd that you suddenly started wearing clothing like that, but my thoughts on that were, ‘your body, your choice, you can wear whatever you want. It’s not my place to comment on it.’ There was no reason for me to connect it more significantly with us starting to date. For me, the significant thing that changed that night wasn’t what you were wearing. It was the exhilaration of having you show interest in me and the discouraging flipside that you’d done it while drunk, which, as I said, I didn’t know what to make of.” He paused for a moment, then added softly and hesitantly, “I still don’t.” His voice shook.  
      Ron realised Blaise was trembling. He’d just spent the last however long laying himself completely bare to Ron and Ron hadn’t explained anything back yet. Fine, a little, but not nearly enough. Blaise had gone through his story start to finish, asking for nothing in return, in order to set Ron’s mind at ease. He was a truly amazing person.  
      Ron took Blaise’s hand and rubbed his thumb over the back. “There’s nothing really deep to make of it,” he said softly. “I’d have taken either the one night stand, or the date, or both. It goes back to your original question of why I thought I needed to wear those clothes in order for you to be interested. I told you before that I’d convinced myself that you’d never want me, and the fact that every pub night you left with someone else just seemed to confirm it. Even when you didn’t leave with someone else, I’d find myself thinking that if the people who approached you that night didn’t measure up, I definitely didn’t. The week before, when you were leaving with whatever her name was, and I was muttering under my breath and glaring as usual, Pansy asked why I didn’t make a move. I told the truth and said I didn’t think you’d want me. She then listed a whole bunch of reasons why you would want me, and in response I repeated back to her some of Jared’s parting words. Among them was a comment about me dressing like a slob, not even trying to attract him. So she, Hermione, Ginny, and Malfoy showed up at my place before the next pub night and kind of forced me to dress up, claiming that it was in the hope that it would give me enough of a boost in confidence to actually say something to you. Then, while I got drunk in an effort to drown my discomfort, you spent the whole night looking at me, and then came over to talk to me.”  
      “There was some bloke behind you who seemed about to make a move on you,” Blaise said. “I figured I’d head him off before he had the chance, so I stared him down and went to sit next to you.”  
      “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ron said. “You said every eye was on me, but I don’t remember that at all. The only one I noticed was you.”  
      “Oh,” Blaise said, as a small smile touched his lips.  
      “Anyway,” Ron continued, “nothing had changed about me since the week before except the clothes. So I figured that _that_ had to be where the sudden interest was coming from. That seemed like a shallow interest, so I thought a one-night hook-up was the best I could hope for. When you refused on moral grounds rather than saying you weren’t interested, I asked you for a date, which is what I had really wanted to begin with. After I sent you my answer the next morning, I remembered about the clothes, and I’d wanted you for a long time, so I didn’t want to take the chance that you’d lose interest again if I wore my normal clothes.”  
      Blaise turned away from Ron and his hand in Ron’s twitched, as if he were going to pull it away. “I can understand you thinking so if I’d agreed to your initial proposition. One night stands are, by their very nature, based on looks alone. All the people who picked me up chose me solely for my looks, so I felt no guilt over choosing them solely for theirs. But for a relationship? Did you actually think me so shallow that I’d make or break a relationship based on what my partner wears?” He sounded hurt and disappointed.  
      There was a pause. Ron, in a moment of clarity, was hit by the bloody obvious. “No,” he said, his surprise clearly evident in his voice. And he _was_ surprised. After all that worrying. Now that he thought about it rationally for even a second, he realised he didn’t believe that and never had. “No, I don’t think that. This was all me being insecure. It really didn’t have anything to do with you at all. I feel really stupid now, considering that I’ve been torturing myself for three weeks. But if I’d actually believed that you were that kind of person, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you, would I?”  
      Blaise looked back up at Ron with a shocked expression. “You what?”  
      Ron’s eyes widened. “I’m such an idiot. I should have said it when you said it to me, but I was too stunned for it to occur to me. Blaise, I’m in love with you too.”  
      The joy that spread across Blaise’s face nearly knocked the breath from Ron’s body. He really was beautiful. And Ron didn’t mean his looks.  
      “Since when?” he asked.  
      “Not that I realised it at the time, but since you told me that I wasn’t the least of my friends. The first time we really talked. That was when it started.”  
      “That’s… That’s really good to know,” Blaise said.  
      “Whenever you call me ‘Knight’ it reminds me of that,” Ron admitted. “I really liked it at first. But it became bittersweet after I realised that’s when I’d started to fall for you, because it became connected to the thought that you’d never love me back.”  
      “Is that why you kept muttering about it?” Blaise asked with a slightly amused smile.  
      “Well, that, and you never called me ‘Ron.’ The fact that you either called me ‘Weasley’ or ‘Knight’ but never called me by my given name was part of what convinced me I had no chance. It seemed to me to imply that we weren’t as close friends as I’d thought we were. So every time you called me either, what I muttered was ‘I have a name.’ Speaking of which, why don’t you call me ‘Ron?’ For that matter, why do you still call everyone but the other Slytherins by their last names? The rest of us tend to go back and forth, but for you it’s constant.”  
      “Ah, the name thing,” Blaise mused with a self-deprecating smile. “I made that more complicated than it had to be. But the basic answer is simple. I call everyone else by their last names so that my still calling you by yours won’t stand out. And I still call you by yours because you never gave me permission to use your first name.”  
      “Huh? Why do you need me to give you permission?” Ron asked, confused. “I didn’t ask permission to use yours.”  
      “No, you didn’t, and that’s perfectly fine, because that’s how you are,” Blaise explained. “For me, well, it’s like this. I don’t presume the right of familiarity of someone’s first name. To me, that’s a privilege that must be granted. Especially when it comes to people I’ve wronged in the past, intentionally or otherwise. All of the others gave me permission. You didn’t. I didn’t want you to stand out, because I knew it would be misunderstood.”  
      “But I didn’t _know_ I needed to give you permission,” Ron protested. “Why didn’t you tell me, or just ask if you could use my name?”  
      “Ah, well, I rather hexed myself in the foot with that one.” The self-deprecating smile reappeared. “I didn’t want to have to ask you. I wanted you to offer your name to me. I wanted you to _want_ me to use it.”  
      “Well, I bloody well want you to use it,” Ron retorted. “So you officially have my permission now. Although you did already use it twice tonight.”  
      “Did I?” Blaise looked surprised, then pleased. “I guess in all the emotional upheaval my tongue got ahead of me. I always think of you as Ron, after all.” Ron smiled at that.  
      “It’s amazing how different things can appear from someone else’s perspective,” he commented. “To me, your always calling me ‘Knight’ or ‘Weasley’ instead of ‘Ron’ seemed distancing. But to you, calling me ‘Knight’ was a step closer to intimacy, while still being respectful.”  
      “That’s true.” Blaise turned serious again. “It was like that with the clothes as well. From your perspective I’d never shown interest in you before, so you locked onto the clothes you were wearing as an explanation. From mine, the idea that I wouldn’t want you was so foreign that it never occurred to me as an explanation for your behaviour, so I locked onto the possibility of abuse as an explanation. I think we need to talk about that.”  
      “You know,” Ron said quietly, “George thought that too, about you, for a minute. I set him straight. Was I really acting that out of character at the beginning? I’d thought that I’d been pushing through my discomfort fairly well at first.”  
      “When did George think that?”  
      “Oh,” Ron ducked his head. “Um, the day after I invited you back the first time, when you came into the shop and I wasn’t there?”  
      “Yes, I remember,” Blaise said. “When you told me you hadn’t been feeling well, I thought maybe I’d ended up pushing too far after all. Until you gave me blanket permission to touch the next time.”  
      “About being sick…” Ron said hesitantly. “I lied.”  
      “I beg your pardon?”  
      “I lied,” Ron repeated. “I was there. I ducked out when you came in because I didn’t want you to see me in my work clothes. I started wearing the other clothes every day under my work robes after that. The same with a few days ago when you saw me ducking into a shop. I saw you on the street and didn’t want you to see me in my normal clothes, so I left. For the last few days I’ve been wearing the other clothes all the time except when I was at home alone, or when we were being intimate. That’s why I was so worked up yesterday. I was reaching the breaking point. Anyway, when I ducked out of the shop, George saw me, so I asked him to cover for me. The next day he asked me why I was avoiding you and if you’d done anything to me. Honestly, the idea that my behaviour could be interpreted that way had never occurred to me. The very idea of you abusing me, or anyone, is ridiculous.”  
      Blaise gave Ron a concerned look. “That’s just it, though. No one was abusing you, but you were still reacting in a way that two separate people connected with abuse. You know why? You were abusing yourself.”  
      Ron’s breath caught. “What do you mean by that?”  
      “Ron, you just told me that you’ve been wearing clothes that send you into a psychological downward spiral almost every minute of the day, even though you knew what effect they were having on you. Think about it. Deliberately exposing someone to an emotional trigger when you know what effect it has on them is emotional abuse, isn’t it?”  
      “Well, yes.”  
      “Isn’t that exactly what you were doing to yourself?”  
      Ron felt dizzy again all of a sudden. He couldn’t answer.  
      “If I had been the sort of person who was only interested in what you were wearing, you would have been torturing yourself for the sake of a completely unhealthy, destructive relationship,” Blaise persisted. “I don’t understand why you treat yourself so badly.”  
      “I…” Ron trailed off, still not knowing what to say. There was silence for a few minutes.  
      Finally Blaise got up off the couch. “Come with me, will you?” he requested.  
      Ron followed Blaise into his bedroom and watched as Blaise conjured a large mirror onto one wall. “Come here,” he beckoned. Ron went and stood in front of the mirror with Blaise.  
      “Will you indulge me for a minute?”  
      “All right,” Ron agreed, bewildered.  
      “Take off your clothes,” Blaise said. “You can keep on your underpants, I’m not trying to seduce you here. I just want to show you something.”  
      Silently, Ron did as requested.  
      “Look at yourself,” Blaise said. Ron did. “What do you see?”  
      “Just me,” Ron answered. “What’s your point?”  
      “Come on. Describe what you see.”  
      “Fine,” Ron sighed. “I see a red-headed, freckled man who’s generally okay-looking, with some scars, and as fit as he can keep himself given his schedule, which is to say, somewhat, but not very.”  
      “Do you know what I see?” Blaise asked.  
      “I don’t know, tell me,” Ron answered.  
      “In purely physical terms, I see a beautiful body that I’ve desired for as long as I’ve felt desire, and not a single scar received since then has diminished its beauty.” Ron’s eyes went wide. “But more importantly, I see a man so beautiful that it breaks my heart that he can’t see it. The man I see, the man I fell in love with, is someone who’s sacrificed himself repeatedly for others.” Blaise wrapped his arms around Ron’s shoulders from behind and held him. “Not just in first year with the chess set, but repeatedly. All the things you’ve talked about as if they were nothing, they’re everything. You stood next to your best friend on a broken leg and declared that someone you thought was a murderer would have to go through you first. You flew an illegal car across the country to make sure that friend was safe when he didn’t respond to your letters. These marks,” he touched one of the lines the brains from the Ministry had left on Ron, “show how you went with your friend to try to save someone. Even though you got hurt, you never stopped standing by his side. There are endless things I could bring up not just from Hogwarts and the war, but afterwards, too. You chose to put your dreams aside in order to help your grieving brother. And more generally, you listen when people talk to you and try to help them when you can. You are a kind, loyal, smart, funny, amazing person. And I will stand with you in front of this mirror every day, if I have to, until you can see that, too.”  
      Tears were streaming down Ron’s face well before the end of this speech. He turned in Blaise’s arms and cried against his chest. He couldn’t help it.  
      “See, this is why I fell for you in the first place,” he whispered between sobs. “Because you can see me even when I can’t.”  
      “I love you,” Blaise said. “I couldn’t possibly love someone who was anything less than amazing, right?”  
      Ron laughed through his tears.  
      Blaise manoeuvred them onto Ron’s bed and lay with his arms around Ron, soothing him as he’d done the night before. Ron calmed after a while.  
      “Have we covered everything?” he asked. “Are we done being melodramatic and emotional for the night?”  
      Blaise chuckled. “Yes, we’re done for the night.”  
      “Good,” Ron yawned, “because it’s bloody exhausting.”  
      “Let’s get some sleep, huh?” Blaise suggested. “We’ve both been through an ordeal tonight.”  
      “Sounds wonderful,” Ron agreed, eyes already closed.  
      They curled up together and went to sleep.

 

       “By the way, I’m curious,” Blaise said during breakfast the next morning. “What did Pansy say in that list of hers?”  
      “List?” Ron asked, confused.  
      “Yesterday you said that she listed a bunch of reasons why I would want you.”  
      “Oh, that list.” Ron thought back. “Um, fairly good-looking for a bloke, good in bed,” he blushed, “which she’d apparently weaseled out of Hermione, successful, loyal, unexpectedly smart, and, well,” his blush spread to his ears, “googly-eyed in love with you.”  
      “Ah, so all things she’d heard me say, aside from the googly-eyed thing and the good in bed thing,” Blaise said, nodding. “I imagine she didn’t put them as flatteringly as I did.”  
      “So you’re the person she said she’d heard it all from,” Ron said, remembering. “For Merlin’s sake, why didn’t she just tell me that? It would have saved a lot of trouble. She knew I had feelings for you. They all did. She should have said something.”  
      “Slytherins tend to play things close to the chest, especially in defence of their own. Anyway, I think Pansy suspected for a while that I at least had feelings for you, but I never actually told her so, so she couldn’t have known for sure.”  
      “Then why do you think she suspected?” Ron asked curiously.  
      “Well, when she came to me and told me that she’d gotten Hermione to tell her about what you’re like in bed, and it sounded like you were good, which I can confirm by the way, I thought that was a good indication of her suspicions. But I suppose it was only fair for her to suspect me. After all, I’d suspected her feelings for Ginny long before.”  
      “Really, you did? Why?” Ron asked.  
      One time on the train back to Hogwarts before sixth year--actually Harry followed us in, so you may have heard this before--Pansy made a comment about me thinking Ginny was attractive, to which I responded, and bear in mind that this was before my enlightenment, that I wouldn’t touch a blood-traitor like her no matter what she looked like. Pansy looked way too pleased at my response, which gave me my first inkling that she might be inclined toward your sister. She may or may not have realised later that I was thinking at the time, ‘ _Her_ , no. Her _brother_ , on the other hand, well, he’s a whole different story.’”  
      Ron nearly choked on his toast laughing.  
      “Now I have a question for _you_ ,” he said when he could breathe again, “I’ve been wondering for three weeks now why you didn’t try to get me out of the clothes I was wearing and into pyjamas when you took me home the night I was drunk.”  
      Blaise cleared his throat, face slightly red. “Uh, Ron, you had drunkenly propositioned me mere minutes earlier, and I’d wanted you for-bloody-ever. Under the circumstances I felt that undressing you, even just to put you in sleeping clothes, would have been inappropriate.”  
      “You are a man of great restraint,” Ron mock-praised.  
      “Just you wait until after pub night tonight,” Blaise threatened. “I won’t be showing much restraint.”  
      “Merlin, I hope not,” Ron grinned.  
      Since it was Ron’s day off, Blaise generously granted himself a holiday from his research, and they spent the whole day together just being lazy, playing some chess, talking, laughing, and arguing about stupid things the way they used to. Blaise was being more open than Ron had seen him in a while, looser and more relaxed. He also reached out to Ron more, grasping his arm, holding his hand, kissing him lightly, and other such casual touches throughout the day. In recognising this, Ron realised what a toll his behaviour had taken on Blaise over the last few weeks especially, but really since he’d first pulled away from him. If he hadn’t been so stuck in his own obsessive insecurity mind-loop the whole time, maybe he’d have been able to pick up on Blaise’s reactions to him. These thoughts were the only sad points in Ron’s day. He wished he could go back and make it so that he’d never hurt Blaise. But whenever Blaise noticed his face start to grow regretful or his words turn towards self-condemnation, he threatened him with the mirror again until Ron couldn’t help but smile. It was such a wonderful day that Ron was somewhat disinclined to end their time together by going to pub night, but in the end he got up and got ready along with Blaise.  
      They walked into pub night together, Ron wearing his normal clothes again. It was almost astounding how much more comfortable he felt. He ignored the relieved expressions of his friends as they caught sight of his attire, and enjoyed the double-takes when Blaise addressed everyone by their first names. Luna drifted over to Ron before he made it to his spot.  
      “Wonderful, Ronald,” she said, “you seem to have gotten rid of almost all the wrackspurts. Keep up the good work. You two look lovely together.” She then drifted back to her seat near Parvati and Lavender, where she leaned toward them and inserted herself into their conversation. Staring after her bemusedly and trying to remember what a wrackspurt was, he settled himself in his usual seat by Harry and Hermione, while Blaise took his by Draco. He was still seated across the table from Blaise, not near enough to talk, because that was the setup of pub night, but it was okay this time, because he knew that he and Blaise would be leaving together. Every so often they would look up from their conversations with their friends, catch each other’s eye, and smile. After one such time he turned back to his friends to find both Harry and Hermione smiling at him, Hermione with that unmistakable “I told you so” look on her face.  
      “Okay, okay, yes, you told me so, I’m an idiot, blah blah blah.”  
      “So?” Hermione asked.  
      “So he loves me,” Ron answered, not even trying to keep the smile off his face.  
      “I knew it,” Hermione said smugly.  
      “Yes, yes, you know everything, I should never question you. Can we move on now?”  
      “We could,” Ginny butted in, “but since we’ve all been telling you that you’re an idiot for ages, it’s much more fun to tease you about it. Right George?” George nodded from his seat next to Angelina, and grinned at Ron in a way that told him he was going to be mocked all day the day after tomorrow when they were both back at work.  
      Ron rolled his eyes and looked back at Blaise. Blaise looked at him after a moment, eyes travelling over his body, and an unmistakable look crossed his face. He looked toward the door, then back at Ron, the invitation obvious. Ron blinked in surprise for a second. Usually he was the one extending the invitation, and they’d barely been there for an hour. But Ron had no problem whatsoever with leaving now. Finally able to be comfortable around Blaise again, he couldn’t wait to get him alone, never mind that they’d been alone most of the day. He smiled across the table and nodded. “Sorry guys, you’ll have to tease me about it next time,” he said. “I’m out of here.” He stood up, and across the table Blaise did the same.  
      “Thank bloody Merlin,” Pansy exclaimed. “You two trying to undress each other across the table was getting on my nerves.”  
      “And this time when Blaise leaves we won’t have to listen to Ron mutter under his breath.” Ginny added.  
      “Shut up, all of you,” Blaise said goodnaturedly. “See you next time.” He and Ron walked toward the door and out of the pub.  
      The minute the door closed behind them, Blaise pulled Ron into a kiss. There was more force in his kiss than he’d put into any of their kisses thus far, and Ron felt himself swept up in a wave of passionate desire. He sighed into the kiss, feeling like his knees were melting as Blaise’s tongue brushed his lower lip, requesting entry. He granted it, parting his lips and meeting Blaise’s tongue with his own. Blaise nipped gently at his bottom lip and slid one hand down to cup his buttocks. Ron clutched at Blaise’s back, feeling a tingling spreading from where Blaise touched him to the small of his back, settling at the base of his spine. Merlin, this was one _brilliant_ kiss!  
      When they broke apart, Ron asked, “Not that I’m complaining, but what’s with the change? Usually I’m the one initiating. Shame, too, because if this is what it’s like when you start the kissing, I can’t wait to see what it’s like when you take the lead in bed.”  
      “Well, first of all I don’t have to worry about accidentally forcing you to do something you’re not comfortable with anymore,” Blaise retorted.  
      “Uh, yeah, sorry about that,” Ron said sheepishly. “But you said “first of all.” What’s the rest of it?”  
      Blaise looked Ron up and down again, his expression one of pure desire. “I bloody hated those clothes, you look so much better like this,” he breathed, tongue wetting his lower lip.  
      “Wait, what?” Ron exclaimed, mind completely blown. “Wait, you--I--this--better--all this time--?!” So not only had he been torturing himself unnecessarily, it had actually been counterproductive to do so? “I--wait--I--” Suddenly he burst out laughing. Seriously, Fate really was a bitch. “Oh forget it, I give up.” He pulled Blaise toward him and kissed him again.

 

_Finite Incantatem_

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who don't know: Erumpents, according to "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" (the book, not the movies), are large African creatures, similar to rhinoceroses, whose horns are filled with a liquid that causes things to explode. Wrackspurts, according to Luna, are invisible creatures that fly in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy.
> 
> I chose this prompt with this pairing because it struck me as funny. To begin with, I didn't know how I was going to address the issue of consent. But as I continued to develop the story I found that there were so many ways in which consent could come up. For example, I've read so many stories where one character basically forces another character to do something, whether it's getting a haircut, putting on make-up, wearing different clothes, etc., and they do it with the best of intentions, "for your own good." I don't think I've ever seen that act called into question in view of lack of consent, yet suddenly, as I developed the scene, it became so obvious: no matter how good your intentions, you do not have the right to force someone else to do something they don't want to do with their own body. So as I wrote my story, when I came up against an issue and suddenly saw a way for consent to be involved, I tried to make sure there was at least a subtle acknowledgment of it.


End file.
